Like some meaning
that emerges slowly 
and almost by
happenstance from the 
murkiness of night 
the mountains appear 
this early morning 
foot soldiers stepping 
forward behind captain 
leading the charge 
a line of 
them shoulder to 
shoulder of rock
hold the line 
is distant heard
as the sun
and its day
slowly marches forward 

It’s become more 
out there than
in here more 
residual than resourceful 
an after thought 
taste and all 
the butter burnt 
on the pan 
a dust gathered
on things that 
have not been 
moved in long 
frequently forgotten and 
remembered only when 
nothing else is 

I like this 
quiet kinda nothing 
maybe if maybe 
so maybe not 
never mind later 
just me and 
my favorite memories 
and a bit 
of longing tossed
in like garnish 
table for one’s 
soup du jour 

The paradox 
of arrival 
is that 
words cease
to explain 
a quiet 
descends and 
desire fades
there’s just 
this nothing
without notion
notice rhyme 
nor reason 

And from afar 
a train whistle 
I’m taken back 
to each early 
morning when I 
would lay awake 
as a child 
with windows open 
in summers heat
and hear wondering 
where and what
it was going 
and wondering too
when it would 
be my turn 
to go so 
very far from 
where I was