Train Ride by Ruth Stone All things come to an end; small calves in Arkansas, the bend of the muddy river. Do all things come to an end? No, they go on forever. They go on forever, the swamp, the vine-choked cypress, the oaks rattling last years leaves, the thump of the rails, the kite, the still white stilted heron. All things come to an end. The red clay bank, the spread hawk, the bodies riding this train, the stalled truck, pale sunlight, the talk; the talk goes on forever, the wide dry field of geese, a man stopped near his porch to watch. Release, release; between cold death and a fever, send what you will, I will listen. All things come to an end. No, they go on forever.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 13:13:39 +0000
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