Where the Wind Blows

by Doug Mitchell


With a benign irrelevance
the train rumbled through town
in the prenatal hours of the morning
with a dull thunder and a silent roar
trying to find the forbidden passage
to Oz.

Gramma told me once
about the passing of the train
from the days of her periwinkle youth
and the nonchalance it left behind.
Now as the heavens reached down
with its decrepit fingers to claim
the mundane vagaries of whatever it wanted,
grammas' voice echoed in my head:
"Ne'er do well and rip the sod,
there is no questioning the hand of God."
With that the train drew ever closer
drowning and droaning all thoughts
enveloping all and folding unto itself.
The cacophony of solitude surrounded me
while I hid from the hand of God.

As the rosy fingers of dawn stretched
across the horizon, basking
in the early morning amber sky,
I broke though my solitude
to discover a mixture
of Dresden, Hiroshima
and the three little pigs.

The scattered intracasies of everyday
lay broken and confused
Dreams once weaved couple
with the frayed ends of sanity.
Across the street a lone figure
takes realizations of the ruins,
not for the sensationalization of today,
but for the justifications of tomorrow.

In front of me a women sits turned around and stoic
in a lawnchair, clinging to photos of yesterday.
Methodically she turns to me with a slight grin,
nods, and turns back to stare at what once was.

Like ants recovering from a 10 year olds'  firecracker,
people emerge from the desolation.
Like an echo from the horrific morn
gramma speaks again,
"The winds they came and toppled the corn,
after the darkest night, came the brighter morn."
With that the train drifted further away,
the sound of only memory remained
and once again upon a time prevailed.

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