This is 30/30 poem #2.
Evening pulses against the commuter rail
as it groans the last of the weary commuters home,
rhythmic as breaking waves. Under the halo
of streetlamps, the autumn grass grows unhemmed,
each blade a factory at work, silent in its duty
to the soil, the yard, the hands that loved it from seed.
Years come quickly, almost wordless, private as houses,
which makes the walk home even lovelier.
I am grateful for this quiet magnificence.
For the train as it presses on in the dark
like a murmur, like a soft wind quivering
over surburbia, reminding me
that the only thing this life owes
any of us is an ending.