Sunday, August 30, 2015

The Paradox Of Rails

Travel by rail has always been my favorite.
Look Ma, no driver, at least none that can be seen.

In this way, the double rail makes sense to me,
guided as I am 
by faith on one hand

and intuition on the other, 
like a pair of Gypsy rings.

Over time, and with the blessing of both dove and crow,
I have taken to wearing sweaters as loose and full as folded wings.

My homing instinct is strong, seeking the pulse at your throat
and the curve at the small of your back;
mistaking your dark hair

for the cricket black
of the best September nights.

I love you. You know that. I always will, 
despite the uncertainty of schedules and
the paradox of rails each depending on the other

to be there, despite knowing
that they will never meet--

like separated lovers, or 
the perfect synchronicity of wingbeats.

8 comments:

Cloudia said...

perfect gem!

Susan said...

Yes, what a paradox: The only way to go and they never meet! How cleverly and lovingly drawn.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

I adore the sweaters "as loose and full as folded wings"....and the rails depending on each other to be there, though they know they will never meet. Sigh. No one writes love poems like you do, kiddo.

Sioux said...

I love the comparison of the rails to lovers. What a lucky woman she is.

hedgewitch said...

Somehow you make it seem delicious to be always traveling, to have no driver except love, to be able to soar on the loose folds of a sweater into a softer, more perfect world of desire...I especially like 'he cricket black/of the best September nights...' and of course, the luminous ending.

Outlawyer said...

Wonderful parallels here--the dove and crow, the sweater and wings, the non-meeting and always being there--and you tie it all up beautifully--things do meet at the end. Wonderful, k.

Other Mary said...

What beautiful images... the rails, and all the aveian touches of the dove and crow. And what poignancy in:

I love you. You know that. I always will,
despite the uncertainty of schedules and
the paradox of rails each depending on the other

to be there, despite knowing
that they will never meet--

Mama Zen said...

"for the cricket black
of the best September nights."

Perfect.