zest soap and old polished wood and a musty couch.
Ah, I am safe in my grandmothers livingroom.
I feel her comforter tucked up beneath my chin
and the quiet, moonlit street outside the window
reminds me that I am safe.
the sound that woke me.
The sound of the locomotive horn,
charging through the frozen, December night air,
into my safe, warm refuge - so sharp and clear
it's as if I'm standing right beside the track.
I hear the wheel's - metal on metal - running hard
on the frozen track. Past the elevator, past the
Gulf gas station, along the highway, heading to Winnipeg
and Thunder Bay and Toronto.
Silence envelopes the night, filling up the space that the train left empty in it's wake.
The moon glow reflects off the cold snow into the window
and I pull the quilt up even tighter beneath my chin
blissfully unaware that for years to come, whenever
I hear a train in the night, I will feel safe and warm and wonderful.