The Night Train
All children’s ears fall on the pulse of the night train’s shiftless hum,
never knowing where it’s going, or in turn, is coming from.
Every year, its starlight travels low, as to not disturb the night,
whose perfect moon, beyond the trees, is turning hills to white.
A quiet steam sifts through the air, melting bits of falling snow
as the night train chugs through sapphire clouds and beams of amber glow.
In a sense, perhaps it’s best it passes once a year,
for the night train wouldn’t be the same without the Christmas cheer.
It’s as if the course sees it is one, for the moon becomes its star,
when the trees with lights of brilliant whites are mirror of its car.
Oh night train, must I wait another year to see your steam?
Passing by my way just once and fading into stream.