mysterious existences endure beside a

transitory life of silent beginnings,

where a hidden solitary figure

becomes a poet in the distance,

only living in writing -

leaving things, weaving threads

into lacework of everlasting presence,

the essence of eternity and vastness of creativity

captured and secured in her attempts to

verse infinity.

white blanketed trees and
iced over telephone poles,
rectangular flashes of color are
boxcars becoming a blur,
a monotone rainbow
smeared across the passenger window
sending subliminal messages that
say do not resuscitate but
you're falling away
with every rung of the railway
falling further behind,
step out onto the platform
tears falling down and
they're mixing with the rain,

no, this isn't home,
this isn't home.

days get longer - find
no need to trudge
through slush because
spring comes home.

eyes fuse to life: you,
a meditation
screaming at the top of my lungs;
amazement on
any given day; a one-minute
heart-skipping, a sunlit moon
and the world keeps
going round.

but for moments, forever,
my world's stuck on
you.