Poem on the train this time last year.

The trees are yellow, orange, candy-red fruit falling, in the morning frost dusts the grass.
On the train the sun shines through the trees, makes leaves look like hammered gold.
I realize that if I focus on waiting, I lose the sweetness of looking
I can't see anything before me-- the same if I think about pictures, 

documenting or whatever.
I sit my chin on the windowsill. Steam from my nose blurs the glass.
I'm looking at the sun, flashing between birches; a window to heaven.