Traveler

She rides rails,

Across the Western European ruins,

Imagining the love that took place,

Over hills and under vineyard trees,

To the sound of a brass quartet,

Mourning the November winds,

She drinks in the last of a day,

Retiring to the bed of a Lithuanian,

With jet black hair and beaten skin,

Lines of his life shoot across his forearms,

As they quiver and flex with his work,

He does not speak to her much anymore,

And seems to take his years with a determined passing,

Intent on the end result-whatever that may be,

She thinks of her father,

Laughing at the table outside an Italian restaurant,

In his frayed white suit,

The one that they buried him in last April,

She remembers his last words to her,

"The juniper seems awfully overgrown,"

Breaking her concentration she sees,

The man is watching her,

Studying, saying nothing,

She smiles weakly and brushes back her calm brown hair,

This is another instantaneous moment of your life,

Remember and cherish them like children,

For sometimes they are all we have.