Faint drip from the downspout:

click-click-click like a wheel

being cranked. The house is dark,

all asleep but me. In candlelight,

the cane plant sways like a date palm

in a gale. Where’s my hammock?

Where’s my drunken boat?

The books still doze, cloistered

on their shelves. Gone the years

when rabbits and geese drifted

across my flashlit wall. Gone, too,

the days when I couldn’t bear

the dark. Now I seek the hours

before sunup, sowing my unlit plot

with kernels of dreams, planted

by the almanac of night.



Photo By: Rachael Tomster