Night Train

A cinquain poem

Photo by Lucy Soerens

Night train

Melancholy

Moan fades in the distance

I pray morning light will bring you

back home.

GRAMMA'S SACRED ROOM

Up the stairs, smell apples and pears,

Gramma’s in the barn now, so who cares?

I’ll scamper on up and check it out--

What is that gloomy room all about?

Missionaries are coming here to stay

And that just doesn’t happen every day.

So the shadowed room has been made clean

Any footprints I leave will not be seen.

My Gramma’s been busy and so the dust

is swept away and I know I must

be very careful not to leave

a trace of me or she won’t believe

I’ve been in the kitchen peeling spuds

and washing dishes in lots of suds.

I see as I peer through the low keyhole

on the washstand there, a pitcher and bowl.

Gramma’s gone now thirty years.

The bowl is fine, but I see through tears

the pitcher’s cheeks resemble mine,  

blemished with hairline cracks--a sign

we’re beyond repair, we’ll never again

know that innocent time back when

the worst thing that happened was Gramma came back

and rewarded rebellion with a resolute smack

to the place on my person where it did the most good.

I promised her then that I never would

without permission go tripping upstairs

to the room that smelled of apples and pears.

          How I cherish the pitcher and bowl!

          They satisfy something deep in my soul

And always remind me of Gramma.