We ride now in the dusk toward home, in the rain. What passes we hardly see through the train window. But I know, I have told you, that at last the weather will clear and we will step away from the train for a few moments. Stand together under the oak tree near the station, two towns away from home.
The leaves will be wet and fragrant as your grandfather’s tobacco and they will shine like the night coming down from the hills quickly toward us. The old wizards sleep there, we’ll say, in the hollows.
We will board the train again, your hand helping at my elbow. We will travel home, past wet fields, over the stone bridge, and arrive in the dark, looking with each other toward the one light shining in the home window.
From the seat next to you, love always,