The Red Car in the Pines

The house was loud with thunder doors
and voices sharp as rain,
so I slipped out through the gravel road
and walked the rusted train.
The tracks were lost to moss and pine,
the woods were deep and wide—
and there I found a lonely car
the forest chose to hide.

I cleared the vines from iron wheels,
let the broken windows breathe,
and brushed a coat of crimson paint
like autumn on the leaves.
I rolled a carpet on the floor,
set a chair beside the pane,
and hung a quiet wreath outside
while it started up to rain.

So I made a little shelter
in the darkness of the pines,
while the rain fell soft around me
through the branches and the vines.
Painted red against the forest,
hung a wreath upon the door—
now the storm can rage behind me,
but it cannot reach me anymore.

The old firebox still held a spark
when oak and pine were laid,
so the kettle hums while rain taps slow
across the roof of shade.
A little couch, a book, some tea,
the woods breathe deep and wide—
and in that quiet red train car
the world stays far outside.