The Whistle - A Poem

I wrote this poem two years ago in my bedroom, when I heard a train whistle in the distance. There's a railroad in my town, but I didn't notice any trains until that night. It is a strange thing—I have only heard the whistle blowing on winter nights. There is something magical and nostalgic about the sound—I don't know why—but I've tried to capture that emotion in this little poem.

The Whistle

In the night she closed her eyes,

To hear the whistle blow—

She heard the whistle, blowing low

Amid the falling snow.

In the dark she sat up straight,

To hear the whistle blow—

And then she stood, and tiptoed slow

To the cold window.

Outside the glass where snow fell fast,

She saw the train go speeding past—

And clear and low, amid the snow

She heard the train, its whistle blow.