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 
Noted
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Thanks.
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Very stirring poem. I wonder if my son said goodbye – though eyes closed and not speaking, perhaps he was cognizant in his last hours – his hands moved as they often did when he talked. And I wonder – on my exit, will I be saying goodbye or totally preoccupied with HELLO to the transition?
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I, too, have wondered about my exit. But I suppose it’ll happen when it happens.
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