Almost 4 a.m.
on a misty Kansas morning.
I try to wash away
the sleepiness
from my insomnia crusted eyes.
Flip my racing thoughts
resting on a fresh sheet of paper—
spread so clean it sheens,
like fresh snow on a sunny day.
clean pen and magical colors.
drop and watch in wonderment,
as the colors sink in...
waltzing,
into the white stillness.
words never heard,
until this very moment..,
dancing in my frenzied brain.
the fresh trees reaching out...
a drop of sea, a chilly souvenir,
the stories of sunsets,
peeled back layer after layer...
and a moon laid on lake waters.
a tender breath of mystery...
a river filled with apparitions
here now—
then gone.
wet roads reflecting,
winding around echoing hills.
the stale winter breeze, now reborn...
floating across the valley as a new dawn.
steam rising from forgotten coffee.
my eyes wary, and then closed.
I feel the calm glow of lights,
the hum of the city,
the silent shadows.
the peace of the morning symphony.
Pen to paper, again,
mind firing untainted tales,
as the pigeons rise.
followed by the squirrel...
and the downstair’s neighbor—
a flick and puff of his first vice.
a new chapter, a clear desire.
the trees rise, the day rises.
night slowly walks,
forward.
onwards,
towards the
spring morning, reborn.
