A TRAIN IS NOT AN OCEAN

By Ginger Wiegman

As a child I lived, for a time,
in a boat house on
Yaquina Bay in Newport, Oregon.
When the tide was in,
the boathouse rocked
like an old creaking cradle.
I fell asleep at night
to the distant undulating beat
of the ocean's drum.

To my dismay,
when I awoke one morning,
I was sent back
to the berry farm in Puyallup.
A place, that for me,
held unspeakable dread.
There, as I lay in bed
I heard a sound
that I thought was the ocean.
I soon realized it was a train
passing in the distance.

As I lay listening to it rolling by,
I drifted off to sleep knowing
I had found a new friend.
A friend that could help me escape,
the reality of my childhood.

My fascination with these
wondrous beasts
has never wavered.

In dreams,
trains carry me away from danger.
When I am awake,
I ride them whenever possible.
From time to time they carry me back
to my first love,
the ocean .

Copyright November 29, 2000