the whistle

I can hear
a train whistle as it crosses
the trestle
through the thin woods,
the trees
bent and losing leaves
on this harsh
night.
the train moves on,
sleek against the tracks,
silver
as it bends,
the yellow light of windows
flashing softly
by.
I can imagine being
on that train,
ticket in hand, a bag
at my side, coming
to you,
and you at the station
waiting,
with open arms.
with tears in your eyes.
wanting me
to be there, me wanting
that too.