And the train pulls out
Of the station,
Taking travellers forward
And leaving others behind.

Depending on the time
Of the day,
This act is done
With little to no sound.

Like a silent movie,
Especially the cool of the morn.
Where are we all going;
Where are we all bound?

i opened my window
and the wind blew in
turning over a page
telling me
that it was time
to start a new chapter

It is too late to sing
‘Wish you were here’
At the park in early spring
Under rainfall and bad covers.
It is too late to ride bikes
To race by the river trail
Fast through flashlights
A thousand stars beneath us.
It is too late to write
About signs and fights
In the drunken crowds
Too late to see a light
I blame this darkened room
Songs, sights, sarcasm, you.

the fuzz on my face,
the rolls in my waist,
i'm sure you'll find ways,
to capitalize these distastes.

September rain  
falling grey on Monday faces
washes out the dusty traces
of August in the air,
coffee mug memories
warm and serene,
muse on the summer it might have been

Faded linen
which smells of straw,
and a shift of corn
in the back of a drawer,
is all that is left
of the girl next door,
she stayed a while
from June to September,
and left fresh berries
to help us remember