“Absence makes the heart grow fonder”
“Out of Sight out of mind“
It’s hard to leave the past behind
And so the heart lingers in the past
on a hitch pulled by the hurried brain
It’s a reluctant train
howling through the fog
of memory and destinations promised
And the premise is precarious
on the grinding wheels
that carry us to the place
where we seek solace,
a load to relieve
It’s a depot where we rest long enough
to gather vagabonds
and glares from trainspotters
before we chug on
with the weight of all that freight,
smokestacks spewing
wasted time
and still attached to what’s behind
Santa Fe in September
It’s been a long, hot summer
stretched out like lazy men resting in hammocks,
and now, driving the country roads,
the landscape cloaked in sepia tones;
yellows, browns, and clay and the weight of sun’s rays hot on my collarbone are what drive me home. My troubles? Just those water slick mirages 400 ft ahead. The tumbleweeds ‘long the railroad tracks are spent and dehydrated tangled brat’s heads waiting for Autumn’s reaping wind to lop them from their earthly neck and send them rolling like poor Antoinette down ghost town roads. The fruit stands are closed. The corn walls were hauled off like a set change ready for the second act. The barren fields, harvest’s yield, already nestled into cellar beds; jars of toil for mouths unfed. But here am I in Indian summer oblivion soaking the last blobs of color from valley horizons, meditating in the last throes of a spent landscape before full resignation.
stretched out like lazy men resting in hammocks,
and now, driving the country roads,
the landscape cloaked in sepia tones;
yellows, browns, and clay and the weight of sun’s rays hot on my collarbone are what drive me home. My troubles? Just those water slick mirages 400 ft ahead. The tumbleweeds ‘long the railroad tracks are spent and dehydrated tangled brat’s heads waiting for Autumn’s reaping wind to lop them from their earthly neck and send them rolling like poor Antoinette down ghost town roads. The fruit stands are closed. The corn walls were hauled off like a set change ready for the second act. The barren fields, harvest’s yield, already nestled into cellar beds; jars of toil for mouths unfed. But here am I in Indian summer oblivion soaking the last blobs of color from valley horizons, meditating in the last throes of a spent landscape before full resignation.
