Sunflowers beside the railroad tracks, sunflowers giving back the beauty God gave you to one lonely traveler who spies you from a train window as she passes on her way to another train station. She wonders if she were like you rooted to your bit of earth would she be happy, would she be satisfied to have the world glide past and not regret it? For a moment, she thinks so, then decides that, no, she never could and turns back to her book of poetry, remembering how hard it was to get here and that flowers have their places as people do and she cannot simply exchange hers for another, even though she wants it. That's how it is. Her mother told her. Now she believes her, although she wishes she didn't. At fifty-three, she feels the need to rebel against the inevitable winding down. She already feels it in her bones, feels artery deterioration, and imagines cancerous indications on medical charts she hopes will never be part of her life, as she turns back to the window to catch the last glimpse of the sunflowers that sent her thoughts on a journey from which she knows she will never return, only go on and on and then just go.