It’s late April
spring is in full swing
bursting with life
the tree lifts its arms,
waves across the field,
its leaves full of light
flutter in perfect rhythm
with the wind.

The train is leaving the station
the years gathering toward my finish line.
Each season a child frantically
waving at his grandpa
as if to whimper
this might be the last time.

We have to be able to adapt
otherwise, we'll get trapped
in a rut,
my gut instinct takes second place
to the benign face I show
when others think they know
better,

but surely
a rut's not a bad place to be?
just look at the cemetery.