The Zephyrs Brushing Your Hair Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Too many unabashed trails going one way:
Trying to keep in step with the mountain ranges receding in
Twilight,
Going to cuddle your soft little town and peep through the
Transoms of its arcade.
Now you have a home and a child: The continent divides
Beneath you,
And the traffic quiets reverently, while I wait out in my retinue
Smiling absolutely breathlessly
Feeling like the sweetest thing tinkering around in an empty
Chest of your ignorance,
The zephyrs brushing your hair and whispering most reverently.