Hobos and Trains

I am driven by such things as those that drive a hobo to a train

tall grass waving in a Midwestern field, August dry and gold

against the back drop of proud Rocky Mountain peaks

cutting clouds to shreds as the dusk paints red upon their drape.

 

Cornfields seem to stretch forever into a distant horizon

unreachable,  but always appearing as if there is an end.. to an endless view

tall Southern pines pointing towards  purple heavens of October

sloped up an Alabama hillside before giving way to hardwoods

leafed in a green only God could keep before they die in brilliant colors

as late September reminds the crickets it's their final chance to clack

 

I have seen the ocean's breath, its misty fog filtering sweet dawns

on the final edge of land where the gulls caw as they land upon soft sand

the mighty roar of a sick surf, stormed and violent enough to push the people

westward over an aged causeway that might as well be foreign land.

 

I have had the honor to live among hearty New Englanders

who don't say chowder quite like you, still proud of their suspenders

pushing fingers into straps before a pull and then a snap

when the final bucket was unhooked from a glorious sugar maple.

 

Yes, I have seen the way the colors change through a focused lens

the beauty of a single moment, I've been spellbound since knee high

as all around me I hear voices, voices of great joy, yet still the angels cry.

 

I am blessed,  here writing this, it might appear I am alone

I am never alone, I am with you, you who are

driven by such things that drive a hobo to a train.

ajs

This poem is about: 
Me

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