Lonesome Railroad Whistle

Does the whistle still blow along the railroad tracks?
Does the steam still whoosh around those iron wheels?
Drawn to the rails like an iron filing,
I yearned for a molecular rearrangement,
a stretched out yesterday,

I didn’t know the ache of my itinerary.

Where is the frosted, yellow wheat?
Where is the red sunset against that winter tree?
Where is the empty creek bed?
Where is the meaning of magenta?

The Station’s empty now, the crowds sucked into evening,
Craving the new neon, built with energy saving bulbs.
An undeciphered answer hiding in the wires.
Can we hear the songs of those without another spring,
Slipping into their new life, plunging into colors,
Bursting with new dimensions?