The Poor Poem from Monday's 5:03 Ride

The train stops at a red signal
And I search
Outside in the wild among
The skittle twigs and
Branches ragged for
Signals of Spring. We move

Forward as I catch
It, glimpse a little yellow bloom.
Winter's spell is
Being bustled away. And
The moss on Battle platform
Shifts its tone, but
Not its shape. From a satellite
Of gloom to the light
Rustic scent of postcards

To be posted home.