AT THE TRAIN WINDOW

These patches of land passing, running,

thoughts thriving with them,

brown, green, green, brown, green…

patches like thoughts that, to be sincere,

do not vary much, come and go,

very similar to one another, a grid,

a web, a thread, or a texture, the mind’s pasture

or heart’s filaments, or the thronging

of what we  might even call soul in our retina’s jungle.

Oh, stop blubbering, just admit

you feel surprised, even though only mildly surprised,

since you have been accustomed to that so much,

at how extensively you are trapped

in the thread, in the web, in the patches.

Brown, green, green, brown, green…

and the occasional glisten,

the thin, once in a very while,

punch of bright light.

Or is it just another trick of your mind?

Heart inventing some warmth to keep going?

The fields flash, dash.

And thoughts throb in their threads.

This is what I know
but it goes unsaid

that I would like to know more, more.

Call it the wish of a why,

the wish that keeps me alive.
While the fields fly.
Brown, green, green, brown, green...