My half complete, discarded poems settle and wait for night.
For still, empty, sacred time.
When cool air blows leaves in crisp cyclones then abandons them-scattered-
in concentric circles.
The past of the day feels far behind.
The half crafted words are held for the time when
The scent of skunk reveals
Unknown stories of nocturnal disputes.
Characters I’ll likely never meet
But porch, a glass of wine, and 1:30 in the morning
Have us secretly sharing our space.
I keep my poems for night
When the darkness makes the things that must get done
Impossible to do.
Hides the cobwebs that must be swept
And throws shadows over corners where piles of laundry lurk.
The night clarifies in its stillness
Making only the important things
Things you can do.
Things you must do:
Create and breathe
Breathe and create.
I save my poems for night
When stray cats stalk the sidewalk
And their silky movements
Become the flow of my pen.
This is the nocturnal ebb that pulls from me
The poison and the passion
Releases words and worlds and rarefied moments set in amber
A car full of teenagers drives erratically down my silent street
Then disappears in rebellious noise
Only for the calm to wash back over.
They have their own tale to create.
I’ve been reminded of the adventurous underbelly,
All those secret stories in the dark.
And then I write my own.