I find myself
in the same places
again and again.
Right in between the cracks
of where memories form
and people are built.
Between the ties
of an old railroad track
and in the sound
of a rushing creek.

I visit this place when I can.

The vines have grown up,
as there are no longer feet
to stomp them down.

I suppose I have too.

I still find myself
waiting for the train
to come down the line
so it can rattle the air around me,
so it can rattle the teeth in my head
and remind me
that though many things have changed,
there are many things
that have not.