At the end of the tracks
there is new grass.
a broken rail-tie juts—
wooden in the sun.
Hard, sunbaked
iron falls away to earth
from ash to ash, to end.
No whistle now
only silence.
Step softly, between the little flowers.
When he takes your hand
be gentle.
Like petals passing over your calves
pale and parting underfoot.
No rush.
Step off the rails
and it will feel
so long
since you remembered new grass.
Photo by Jaime Dantas on Unsplash.
Abigail E. Sims 