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
