Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree, Poems


little boys like trains
but not all of them can
be engineers or hobos

down here by the river i hear the rumble
and turn to catch a glimpse of its passing

i wonder if somehow i missed something
a destination not traveled to
a landscape unseen

later at home i hear the whisper of the horn
tapping softly against my bedroom window
i tremble at the call