A Lucky One

Yes, the vanilla-flavored coffee
is superb–-smooth with easy sipping—
before night unveils a lightened sky.
Yes, the clear-note bird song
outside darkened windows delights.

But, oh, I suddenly lift my head
upon hearing something more.
Tilting my head, turning an ear
toward beauty outside in the dark,
turning an ear to beauty beyond sight,
I smile to self. Yes, the returning train.

My favorite conductor is here
moving e’er closer as seconds soar,
pushing forward on shaky tracks
rattling with rough-house rhythms.

Sounds from a charging train mesmerize.
I think this conductor is a train artist. Yes.
I listen to four quick-whistle shout outs
followed by four slow-motion squeals,
shrieks, high-pitched wails, traveling on tracks,
These cries to sky are as fast as lightning and
as slow as molasses-pours on breakfast pancakes.

Ah, the sounds in this train-track romp.
If sailing sounds were art on life’s canvas
as night releases its hold, the picture is priceless.
Blends from the brush of the harmonic colors soothe.
“Conductor, travel those tracks. Return. Play it again.”
Grateful I am for AM gifts— coffee, birdsong, best train.

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5 comments

  1. Hi Jan

    but, oh, I suddenly lift my head
    upon hearing something more.
    Tilting my head, turning an ear
    toward beauty outside in the dark,
    turning an ear to beauty beyond sight,
    I smile to self. Yes, the returning train

    There is something romantic, beautiful and haunting about a passing train. I feel the same as the narrator in your poem and you have described the mystery and the music of the vehicle and the conductor who compose it. Many nights, I hear the trains passing here through the high desert. It is both comforting and inviting — especially when the imagination refuses to sleep and wants to roam its tracks of possibility.

    Really enjoyed this,
    Wendy

    Liked by 1 person

  2. “If sailing sounds were art on life’s canvas
    as night releases its hold, the picture is priceless.”

    Speaking of art, Jan…my oh my, truly poetry in motion.
    I can see, hear, feel the rumble, taste the morning air
    and the coffee…all the sights engaged, and the smell
    of that coffee draws me to the kitchen window…right
    beside it, the coffee pot. Thanks for this bit of heaven;
    it is sumptuous.

    Like

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