Night in bed,
eyes closed, ears open,
listening to the secret life outside my window.
The liturgy of the nocturnal.
Sounds and rhythms of
giving testimony to the trees that overlook
the native church like great archways
carved of Roman hands.
The intricate language of tiny animals
sweeping through the night air
unfaltering they hold me spellbound.
How can I sleep without an interpreter?
If only I knew what they were saying.
I could sleep again.
Sun walks the roof of the sky
with a turtle’s patience.
Circling endlessly amidst the black passage
of arrival and retreat.
Moon can shape shift
and puncture the confident darkness.
The weaker sister of sun
it bleeds light even as it dwindles
to a fissure of fluorescence.
Black sky like a monk’s hood draped
over stars with squinted eyes.
exiled to overspread
the dark lair of the zodiac.
This silent outback where
light is uprooted and cast aside
beats like a tired clock uneven.
It dreams of sunlight passing so
it can follow like a parasite.
Tired of meandering in absence it
wants to live the speed of light and feel its directness.
Wishing to stay alive in light years
and not some recumbent eternity.
Desiring the sharp pain of life
to the dull, numbing outskirts of ancient space.
Darkness follows light like a tireless
wind that pours over tumbleweeds.
But it always seems to outlast the people
if not the light.