Destination

in the distance

a whistle sounds,

and though it is still

a stop,

or two,

before my terminus,

I begin to gather

the detritus of my journey

and discard it,

bit by bit,

along the rail-bed.

rag-tag collections

of regret

tumble over and over

along the disappearing tracks

goodbye

dreams, alive

with longing,

follow the updraft

to oblivion

goodbye again

to words unsaid,

or said too late

and yes,

my load is lighter now;

I almost feel that I could fly.

good morning squirrel,

good morning wren,

I thought I'd never fly

like this again

but am I mourner?

or celebrant?

sometimes it makes me

want to cry,

these repeating rituals

of goodbye

1 ask a congress

of imagined gods:

am I the daft fool

dancing in the rain,

mistaking the tarnish

of burnished pain,

for the gleam of raindrops