Tale

Perhaps the parts of me you've cut off 
have become myth. Some kind of story,
at least: where did she go? why 
doesn't she write or call? The train
is stalled again at the intersection:
one either waits indefinitely, or finds
a way to leave the line. We used to read
stories about a changeling left in the night, 
while the girl that was taken was wed 
in the underworld. The ice baby sobbed
its heart out and as soon as it could,
ran into the yard to bay at the hills.
Or perhaps it was the mother 
taken away? I can't remember right
sometimes. But here we are in the middle
of the wood again. Finally the train
has moved on. The town looks
dusted with sugar. The trees 
are brittle with change. Every bird
sings with the shadow of your voice.