All A Board

by Diane Webster

The wooden railroad walkway
lies parallel to the iron tracks.
Nails rust and release planks
to warp into splintered grains
almost like a re-growth of bark
through weathering decades.

Iron rails scorch under July sun
so every weed tied to the tracks
withers in death back to its roots
like the iron rails dreaming
of the day birthed from the mold
red hot and angry to serve
as spikes secured their travel
over hill and dale
until the station silenced,
and only leaves bustle
across lines of iron and plank.