Jackson Reed’s at his piano, his hands
gently caressing its keys, ebb and flow
of his original notes in command
of my vision, lifts me from here and now
to inside a rambling train, gazing out
its wide window, rain trailing across pane
like memory, and outside silent shout
of a woman running to catch up in vain.
We leave her waving, push on, weaving past
emerald green fields, a sudden forest,
a line of suncast mountains, hinting last
visions before dark holds us with the rest
of his melody repeating itself
like longing to lift hope from its stark shelf.
Roger Armbrust
January 18, 2019
