Zephyr

The wind outside is steady, with

no bursts, no chop, and gentle tho 

I'm not quite sure 

what I should call its voice, 

then as I'm quiet, listening, 

the Zephyr comes to mind,

blowing constant and majestic 

from some jagged cleft between 

the ranges of my memory,

funneling a reach back 

to some far long ago.

Ice-cold cars, and 

berths so small as to be tiny,

linens slick and tight, and

dense wool blankets thin,

we thought we slept

but all the night the train rocked on 

and yellow street lamps strobed

under shades not fully drawn,

and we glimpsed the barren crossings 

In the non-existent towns 

on plateaus chiseled from the plains, 

and rising to the foothills 

and front range.

In a morning strange and

alien, we sat very still,

little children minding manners,

and waiting for our orange juice 

in glasses shaped like bells,

ate waffles, maple syrup

sticky on our chins

and then we sat away the afternoon

had peanut butter sandwiches, 

while the mountains and

the sky grew bigger 

in the dome car on 

the Zephyr to the coast. 

I don't know if memory really

matters much or serves a purpose 

unless it's grand or transformational, 

but this small picture burned

as bright and sweet as if we'd 

journeyed yesterday, and 

for that, I thank the wind.