Morning Poem, August 18, 2014

Late Night

 

Sleepless at one-thirty

I rise and open a window

for a draught of real air.

It is silent outside,

I’ve outlasted

even the crickets and cicadas.

Street lamps,

one near and one far

make crosses of light –

star-crosses –

one large and one small

on the windowscreen.

The damp, late-summer air

holds the pleasant scent

of new-cut lawns.

In the darkness

the once rigid lines

of neighbors’ walls and roof

and intersecting streets

are softened.

Then a faint light on one corner of my yard

and now shadows of tree-trunks and lamp post

stretch long and fan away

across the even grass.

The car

itself a dark rectangle between the washing flash of headlamp

and tail-light painting the pavement red behind

whispers by my window.

I hear the roll of the tires over the asphalt.

It disappears down the hill

and my still-life

is transformed into an unknowable mystery.

Who?

Where?

Why?

 

Copyright 2014

This entry was posted in blogging, creative process, literature, modern poetry, mystic, mythopoeaic, mythopoeia, new writers, poetry, poets, post modern poetry, summer, writers, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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