Terminal

For every departure
there is an arrival.
It is the law of the axe
Whose handle was a tree
It is the secret
The fire caves in upon
Whose smoke disappears
Along its own trail....
The leaves push off again-
A whole fleet of small sails-
And no one knows where they land.
Children wave from train windows
Their years growing
Heavy on their backs.
But somewhere a cloud is forming
That will flower here in petals
Of snow
And light from a star
That started towards us
A million years ago
Arrives at last........

Linda Pastan