The Last Thing

On this humid December afternoon
Tall clusters of shell ginger, borne out of reach,
Hang over the sidewalk, quiet and undemanding as prayer.

But because you and I have separate lives now
In regions of the world far from one another
Who were once at peace here, resolved in our happiness,

Because we are divided by more than water
And land and climate, I think of winter in a place
Halfway between us, where our spirits are watching

As night comes on. These ghosts of who we were
Do not sleep. They wade in the high winds
Of a midcontinental blizzard, until they stand

Beyond the piled snowdrifts where they can see railtracks
Disappearing both directions, west and east.
Assured, they are as cold as trees.

They wait. Then the tracks begin to ring on the ties,
And, as the ties brace for the weight of many cars,
A bell clatters, and a wheeling light drives a bright beam

Far ahead through dense snowflakes. Then they grip hands,
The land shudders, the train wails by the crossing.
And they stare after it a long time, down the road they cannot go.

　

　