February 6, 2018
Today every song is a diary of lost dates,
moments cured in precision
and stowed away on a train to the next town,
always yearning the beyond, around that precious bend.
Or, a funeral for tomorrow, processing the improbable
present. Lights, flickering. The starling’s first peep.
All urgency dies. Outside, leaves float in the fog
as I drive away to a finite point.
Now, a whistle mourns the day’s broken
surge; never having said goodbye, you move on.
* * *
“February 6, 2018” was published in the North Dakota Quarterly in February 2019.
O at the Edges 
Potent phrase for current times: processing the improbable / present
LikeLiked by 1 person
That morning, that day, is still vivid to me. The improbable was present then, as it is now. Perhaps even more so now.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That’s so in tune with the world today. Thank you for sharing it with us.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Paula.
LikeLike