Early spring cherry blossom by the tracks — so prim
and so dirty, all at once. The bees must be dropping
to their knees. For me, it’s after the harvest, only just but
even so, a different season. There are elderly women
on the platform in beautifully cut coats and expensive shoes.
I know that’s where I’m heading, but not yet. I can feel the sap
humming in my hips and legs; my hair taken by the wind is still
a good thing. You surprise me with coffee and wait with me.
It’s unexpected and lovely, your regard. Window box platonic
but definitely that spark. Like standing in the sun on a bitter
cold day, tasting the froth brim over the top of my cup.
The station master recites where the train is going;
no one cares where it has been. I get on with
the well-dressed pensioners, my hair warm from the sun.