Thursday, June 11, 2009
Secretly, you always hope someone will ask.
But you are in the back of the empty train car,
writing this poem,
feeling transitory--
cards face down.
The brown June grass goes by,
the lazy Pacific and the Sun
(upside-down in front--
and even where you sit,
you don't feel so inspired)
--just another star burning its way down the horizon,
(another Star inverted
these days you are less peaceful than the Sea.)
As you wend your way from San Diego,
considering how this trip has changed--
so full of notions and illusions;
seven cups of fears and falsehoods
left behind,
carried forward.
The light falls golden on the stones beside the rails,
beatific rubble, scattering.
The train, the Chariot --pausing
to collect more travelers, rolling on.
(More options, more movement
keep going and choose.)
And choosing, moving, is always a beginning--
the Ace of cups (like the Sun upon the ocean,
like a handful of fresh water)
You can always start again.