The wood of the whistle-stop platform
grew right where the track now lay
and its ancestors powered the engine
that fueled towns along the way.
The stare of the vacant windows
reflect the missing sounds,
the bustling, rustling muster
that used to enchant the town.
It’s moved just miles away now
festooned with imported grace, a
spur of the mainline railroad to
keep up with the quickened pace.
The angled rays of summer sun cast the
flowered fields aglow, while the verdant
forest and nearby hills speak softly
Meanwhile, decay has settled
on the bones of winter dreams
though not upon this broken town
but the one with the platinum gleam.
There is an invisible curtain
upon entering a house of books.
The lifted veil provides
a potpourri of pages,
an intense incense of the old
with its earthy musk
of ancient spines,
an aphrodisiac for the written word.
They are the forgotten firecircles
with the dark spaces for stories
passed from mind to soul.
Each home and hearth
possess their own
but always yearn for more.