That’s close to what I was feeling.
I didn’t want the poem to go on forever trying to over-analyze especially as I’ve been word-sound sensitive in my work lately and I’ve been trying very much to keep things short, despite some criticism I’ve been getting from J.D. about that. Which, frankly, I don’t understand.
I am out there every morning and, of course, now, morning is a different reality, darker, moodier, colder. I work around and with animals and trees mostly, and in the mornings mostly cleaning up after what has gone on during the night, preparing for the day. When I heard the whistle it indeed touched something. That train passes every morning, just north of here, at 7:05 AM, and in the cold, wet fog with the sun not yet quite over the horizon that sound seemed different suddenly.
But then, as the broom fell from my hand and I sobbed I realized I was thinking “whistle” and it isn’t a whistle at all, is it? It never was, truly, a “whistle” and it certainly isn’t a whistle now but some mechanically organized sound attempting to reproduce what used to be that coal-steam ejaculation. So, what is it, then? What to call it? And how does that lack of knowledge, the absence of that word from my vocabulary, connected to the source of the sobbing — which I know, of course.
At which point I looked down and for a second, in that broom, I saw my future self lying there, as I had once years ago, but this time not so luckily, not so young and totally cut off, as I am much more now, from community.