AS PUBLISHED IN PAINTED BRIDE QUARTERLY
Let’s deal with the brilliant forsythia
and the strangle of lilacs
that beside the train tracks bloom
and burn, yellow, mauve, erratic, effusive,
firing flames beside the train’s upstate roar
even as it shrieks by at no matter what speed
tell these seasons they can’t go on like this—
oh just a glimpse of the sparkling Hudson
before the train fires on
is not enough! Endless river,
always passing, blooms yearly dying:
give us more order—
or less.
From the train I spot
a man on a Hudson river barge,
who waves to me with a big smile
and I wave back.
From behind windows so darkly tinted
he may not see me
waving
waving anyway, waving and waving—