We sit against their backs on those days

mounds of mist hide most of the mountains,

chairs, red with gold leaves, feeling ancient as Persia,

their hooves scratching wood floors

as we ride them behind huge windows

over meadows up to whiteness

where snow caps hold high old mysteries,

where you and I keep saying

over the steam of coffee:

there’s more journeys than we can travel,

more days than windows,

more words than we can read,

more than sky will ever tell

In these chairs we have gone

as far as we will ever go