Ai

 

Sunflowers beside the railroad tracks, 

sunflowers giving back the beauty God gave you 

to one lonely traveler 
who spies you from a train window 
as she passes on her way to another train station. 
She wonders if she were like you 
rooted to your bit of earth 
would she be happy, 
would she be satisfied 
to have the world glide past and not regret it?

For a moment, she thinks so, 
then decides that, no, she never could 
and turns back to her book of poetry, 
remembering how hard it was to get here 
and that flowers have their places as people do 
and she cannot simply exchange hers for another, 
even though she wants it. 
That's how it is. 
Her mother told her. 
Now she believes her,

although she wishes she didn't. 
At fifty-three, she feels the need 
to rebel against the inevitable winding down. 
She already feels it in her bones, 
feels artery deterioration, and imagines 
cancerous indications on medical charts 
she hopes will never be part of her life, 
as she turns back to the window 
to catch the last glimpse of the sunflowers 
that sent her thoughts on a journey 
from which she knows she will never return, 
only go on and on 
and then just go.