In The Last Gusts

I haven't done anything in the past
four days,
except exist.

Sure, I've drifted
over the railroad tracks like a tuft
on the breezes.

Sure I've climbed to the top of the abandoned
trains, with their rust rubbing off.

Nothing can be done
in the final currents of Spring,
except let the breezes take you,
I've concluded.

Nothing can be done while
the Summer bulges about to burst, pulling
everything up into its pause.

As we float towards
that breathless state, Summer.

The lion let loose, lazily
being a lion.

The dandelions set loose,
knowing exactly what to do
on their currents of Spring.

Following the suggestions of the wind and
its invisible mumblings.

I've done nothing in the past four days
except watch the dandelions
prepare for summer.

I've done nothing
except wear the rust of giant trains
standing on their backs in the last gusts

before the lion walks.