Sharon Lask Munson
On the Train to Whittier, Alaska
My father reaches into his breast pocket, unfolds a clean white handkerchief, wipes the center of the smudged window. Mother grasps the now dirty cloth and tucks it into her beige purse. They press their cheeks together, gaze out the window, behold mud flats at low tide, pyramids of driftwood.
The train enters a two-mile tunnel, goes dark and nearly silent but for a baby’s whimper and echoes of metal on tracks. As the train pulls back into daylight, I glimpse dad’s right arm around mother’s slender shoulders, her face turned skyward, their lips together.
eventide
through bare branches
a moonflower opens
About the Author
Sharon Lask Munson is a retired teacher, poet, old movie enthusiast, and lover of road trips, with many published poems and several books of poetry. Many things motivate her to write: a mood, a memory, the smell of cooking, burning leaves, something observed or overheard, and of course, imagination. She lives and writes in Surprise, Arizona. www.sharonlaskmunson.com.