Two women on a train
sit beside me.
I am young and the world
is flying and I am watching.
One of them is frosty.
The other turns like a leaf
to hand me something —
it looked for all the world like a page.
I thought at the time
that it needed me and I was right.
The letters fell into place
and simple flowers grew.
Now it talks unceasingly
in long white verses
as if at a wedding,
something women understand
and gently want and then regift.
I myself agree with Herbert,
who in a dark mood conjured
the mushrooms underfoot
unseen by bride or groom
and with him I say, Perhaps
the world is unimportant
after all, though this is not
what one discusses with
women on a train, no matter
how long the journey,
or untroubled the land.