Where are you going serpentine tracks? What awaits beyond your curve? Do the travelling trains trust your corridor caring not that they cannot see what lies ahead? Your solitary steeled arms, hidden by nature’s path, carry but one passenger at a time. Overgrown and worn, straight and unyielding to rights and lefts, yours is not a pathway for speed or diversions.
Your symmetry upon the earth beckons the gypsy in me. Your rhythm of steel against steel is hypnotic. Visually you offer a path that is straight and true. But the night whistle of the train, unlike the Mourning Doves, is never answered. There is so much I’ve yet to see that lies outside your tracks. And unlike the furnaces that forged you, I’m just beginning to learn about truth and tend to weave a bit. You are most definitely enticing and your imagery teases a poet’s heart. I can walk your path but I cannot walk your rails.
