Mornings to Midnights

I like quiet in the house,

like church before the service,

Or the deep woods on a day

with no wind to make the leaves

chatter like children at play.

After the night

I start my day

thinking about my dreams

and directing a stream

of chaos into a plan

for the next steps

that will take me to nightfall

once again.

I count it worth considering

that a dream

might contain my voice

and hold my attention.

But know that I might turn away

at any time that I hear

the chickadee’s concerto

or am captured

by one perfect petal

cast down on the lawn

by an impatient tree

that must make room

for its cloak of green

to suit the Summer sun. time

waits in the wings

not caring where I go

but seeing that

I return to sit

on my moss-covered wall

where time stops

but silence moves

the day closer to its end.

It writes a play I perform

in my dreams

as sleep lifts the curtain

on another world.