Verdant

And now I find
I do not wish to leave
This train,
Swaying,
Rolling, and bumping
Through newly
Verdant fields,
And driving rain,
Pixelated
On the glass.

I find
I could carry on
Past the posted stops,
Through Dorval
And Montréal.

I would carry on
All the way to
Nova Scotia,
If she would
Carry me.