Hovering,
I watch from a humming train,
detached, just a few feet above
the dense, dense canopy of green,
kalachuchi, and mango, and quiet.
Haunting,
like spiders fleeing from the rain,
afraid, but seeming, somehow brave,
they climb, weave silk in the wind,
and fly, ghostly white, to live or die.
Holding
on, knuckles turn ashen then pale,
metal handle bars, they keep me safe,
history watches, as I repeat and agree,
well into every sad sleepless life.
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