A Late Winter Wind

 A late winter wind blows through the trees, a strong wind

storming across the lake, rushing down the mountains beyond,

swishing and swaying the tree tops in its way, roaring

like the freight trains we used to chase as kids.

Hearing that blast of the engine’s horn, we’d race each other

to the tracks and count the cars as they thundered by us, swayed

ourselves with the click and screech of flanged wheels on parallel

tracks, bearing down on us, the whoosh of box cars passing, one

after another, drowning out our shouts, our youthful enthusiasm

eclipsed by the noise of trains, yet we eagerly awaited the old caboose

at the end, our one last hope of being carried away to someplace new.

The rhythmic ring of the crossing gate bells we heard clearly, a reminder,

after the last car had passed, leaving us standing there waving, watching

as the train retreated, its horn forlorn, slowly fading into the distance

as it rounded the bend and disappeared across the trestle.

So it is with a late winter wind blowing through the trees, across the lake

from the mountains beyond, swishing and swaying, our enthusiasm

eclipsed by its roar, eagerly awaiting the caboose of winter, the crossing over

into spring, our lives renewed now by the season’s passing, like chasing

trains and wondering where they were going, where they would take us,

wondering what lay around the bend, what our lives have in store for us

in the seasons changing, winter into spring and the approach of summer.