Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change <br />is train tracks. She’s sure of it. <br />The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery <br />by the side, but not the tracks. <br />I’ve watched one for three years, she says, <br />and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow. <br /> <br />Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track <br />near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train <br />is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore. <br />The wood was split and some of the ties were gone. <br /> <br />Every Tuesday on Morales Street <br />butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens. <br />The widow in the tilted house <br />spices her soup with cinnamon. <br />Ask her what doesn’t change. <br /> <br />Stars explode. <br />The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals. <br />The cat who knew me is buried under the bush. <br /> <br />The train whistle still wails its ancient sound <br />but when it goes away, shrinking back <br />from the walls of the brain, <br />it takes something different with it every time.<br /><br />Naomi Shihab Nye<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trying-to-name-what-doesn-t-change/
