Paul Hartal

She rides her bike
Along the railway
Crossing the tracks
Where the long trail ends.
Her gray hair shines:
A flying silver kite
Over clover fields of August.

And at night
When crickets sing
The praises of star light
And pale shadows bath
In the dense void of darkness
She dreams
Of pink-skinned breast-fed babies
Of white butterflies
Or red grapes and rye bread
With black olives.

And as she sleeps
Her lips puff sometimes
Like locomotive engines
Of bygone days.