Reid@YWP

I can't do it! she thought miserably, clutching the cold rock on the side of the mountain, her fingers blistered and peeled. "You can!" said a voice. Real or a figure of imagination, she did not know.

She is a lark

ripping the bark

as she takes off.

A missed sight

into the night.

Mother weeps for her.

The lost child

gone in the wind.

So large and gentle, you were 
a special sort of worker. 
Strong from weathered weary, 
braving the wearied weather.

Sometimes, 

they think the forests must have been constructed,

around the railroad. 

That the tracks were built up from Earth long ago,

                         The concern that keeps me lying awake.                  &