Train — of the last well, then care that climbs and shines, begin;
The car that held what I would never win
By word today. The glass took morning light:
Bright cloud on bright blue sky — too fair, too bright
To look away. Behind, the children's noise
Cut through the coach with loud and needless voice.
Two rows before me, rightward in the press
Of seats, a little company — a dress
Of four or five, each fair as each, and none
Made lesser by the rest. My look chose one:
Black to the knee; long hair, a soft dark sea;
Two slender golds; two thicker bands to be
The right wrist's claim; one ring upon the fourth —
Beside the little finger — kept its worth
In silence. What that circle meant, I guessed
And did not know. The mystery held the rest.
Cool bottle. Long black boots. A small black bag
Across the shoulder. Friends as fair. The flag
Of looking still flew only over her.
Whence had they come? What stop would claim them next?
The car kept counsel. Rails refused the text.
Their laughter held a door I had not tried.
Mystery kept their side, and would not guide.
I rose in mind. I crossed the aisle in thought.
"How fair you are" — the word was shaped and sought
Her ear, to do its work, to fit, to stay —
To join the circle, know what one should say.
The will stood up. The body kept the seat.
Not yet the chapter. Not yet that complete.
Then journey's turn: the doors drew breath. They rose.
I rose with them. The shared short road must close.
This was the last well strangers share today —
One spring of chance, then separate dust away.
Outside, the platform took them. They were gone.
I changed the car. The second coach rolled on
Without their gold, their black, their bright array —
An emptied well. The rails still knew the way.
Beside me now: a father and a child
So small the seat seemed wide, the world too wild.
He wore her bag — a white and tiny thing
With unicorns drawn soft along the string —
And from its side a mermaid's painted trail
Of glittering rounds that caught the coach's pale
And threw it back, a little sea of glass
That flashed each time the rocking car would pass.
A pouch a grown man fills with comic grace,
Yet holds because the little needs that place.
I almost laughed. I did not look away.
Care wore the joke. The joke chose not to stray.
She climbed the handholds, monkey-quick and free,
Hand over hand along the swaying tree
Of poles the coach provides for those who stand —
A small wild course the rails did not command.
As when a shoal turns once beneath the sun,
And every scale takes light, and none is one
Alone, yet all the water seems to burn —
So flashed that bag: the rounds would take their turn
At catching day. The father sat, and wore
The glittering care. The girl climbed one hold more.
Train — of the last well, then care that climbs and shines —
They went. He sat. She climbed the swaying lines.
I kept the word unsaid, the aisle uncrossed.
The well was spent. The pouch still took the frost
Of morning glass, and threw the day back bright.
I laughed. The rails kept rolling into light.