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 

This is when 
I mostly do 
this time when
things slow down 
it’s just me 
and the deep
yellow and orange 
and everything casts
the longest shadows 
housework done dinner 
on the stove
or in oven 
and jazz dances
with the aromas
begging me to 
watch like children 
at the pool

Imagine knowing 
the wind
but not 
calling it 
by any 
other name 
be it
breeze or
storm for 
names mean 
nothing to 
nature and 
the Universe 

Hazy days 
of summer 
when even
without sunglasses 
seem dark 
a sheer
curtain pulled 
across mountains 
from north
to south 
everywhere faraway 
seems gone 
except for 
little hints
like memories