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