End of the Line


“I hear the train a’ comin’
it’s rollin’ round the bend…”
sounding its mournful whistle
far away inside the lonely night
saying goodbye as it’s off to places
she’s never been
nor ever will
though she’d like to “be gone
500 miles when the day is done”

she’s a soul who wanted to roam
“like a rollin’ stone”
but fate had other plans
for this old disillusioned woman
so here she stands
on this unkind plot of land
a house, a yard
a solitary life
all hers and hers alone to tend

though…

she wonders sometimes
if anyone would miss her
if, like in times of yore
with nothing but
the clothes she’s wearing
and a small backpack
she becomes “Queen of the Road”
and rides that train to
the “End of the Line”

©2026 Kate Wolfe
(Reworked older poem.)

Featured image via Pixabay.

Goldenrod

sneaking in behind
swath ornamental grass
tall green stalks
invaded edge of backyard
I saw them growing
thought them a weed, unknown
needing pulling
but I put off entering
chiggerland
told myself
after a killing freeze
I’d deal with them

then yellow flowers bloomed
bees and butterflies supped
and I pondered—
what if I’d yanked them
when they first had
the audacity to invade
I wouldn’t have witnessed
this sunny show

I have been the weed
I have been the goldenrod
torn from what anchored me
tossed aside
like so much garbage
before I had the chance
to flower
and adding to the sadness
of it all
the killing was often wrought
by my own
foolish hand

©2026 Kate Wolfe

Drawing is my own using micro pens and watercolor. Second image is my own photo of goldenrod free-ranging into my ornamental grass. (Posted on a previous blog.)

Wednesday’s Child

I was not born to be happy…

no bright star shone down on me
when I was dropped headfirst into the world
red-faced, kicking, and screaming
and placed in my mother’s arms—
the only true home I’ve ever known

instead, a dark star witnessed my birth
stepped out of hell’s black hole
took me in its cold bony hands
and christened me “Wednesday’s Child”
damning me to a life of woe

not for me fair of face or full of grace
a clumsy witch with frizzy red hair
who mounts her broom
and beneath an a ghostly moon
runs wild with the night

night understands, night knows
what beats inside my heart
what tangles and twists my soul
it doesn’t question, doesn’t judge
night is my beloved familiar

there’s a certain comfort in failure
a happiness inside misery
a pleasure in absent feelings
for a Wednesday’s Child
who has serenely accepted her fate

for…
I was not born to be happy

©2026 Kate Wolfe

Both poem and monochromantic watercolor are several years old. The poem is one of my favorites of the many I have written, and I think the watercolr painting pairs well with it.

Free Fall

The waterfall looms ahead,
no way she can steer around.
It lays before her,
horizon to horizon wide.

Like a cow going to slaughter,
she knows she can’t escape what’s to come.
She’s poked and prodded from behind,
not allowed to turn back.

Scalding voices splash her stern,
eating away what’s good in her wake,
as it pushes her forward into the future.
Faster and faster, then…free fall.

The angry knots in her stomach untangle
as she leaves despair behind,
plunging into the unknown waters of tomorrow
where she never will be found.

©2023 and 2026 Kate Wolfe

Featured image via Pixabay.

A Widow’s Sunset

sunset...
December 20th, 2025
three days into widowhood
still seems unreal
I'll go into the house
and he won't be there

just an empty chair
and twenty-five years of memories
some bad...more good
with a man who was hard to live with
but who loved me beyond measure
even when I didn't deserve it

how I wish he could have seen
this beautiful sunset
on his life
and who knows
maybe he was standing there
close beside me

no longer locked
in a dying body
chained to misery
at long last
soaring free

©2026 Kate Wolfe

Featured image my own photo taken at sunset three days following my husband’s death.