From the Cozily Rocking Eastbound Train

Perhaps this scene,

from the cozily rocking eastbound train,

of the juvenile sleet clouds tentatively stretching their wings,

misty-morning-silver-feathered

over the band of liquid, languid river

carved through the hilly, forested scape of a season's afterthoughts -

Perhaps this scene, which briefly slakes the deep inner ache,

whose favorite costume is wanderlust -

Perhaps this scene need not throw into sharp relief

all the days of ordinary time,

need not cast some pall of insignificance upon

all the other moments

(doldrums, I'm tempted to call them) -

Perhaps this scene could but rather serve as a flare, or beacon,

as worlds outside contemplate turning frail and crystal once more -

Yes, perhaps this scene could be a bastion, holding the truth

that this sublimity hides away,

if only more reservedly,

within every other moment.

Yes, perhaps this scene,

from the cozily rocking eastbound train

might remind me of this

that wonder is waiting everywhere you are willing to look for it,

even

(or especially)

in the seconds of the seasons rushed through, and already fading

out of view of the trembling windows, misty with slow frost

through which I watch and pass all things.

*