In the half-light
between the crowded tasks of day
(lit harshly perhaps, but at least there are fewer shadows)
and the darkness of the night, which may
hold oblivion or wrestling in one's soul
(depending, it seems, on how much you will miss that sleep),
is the lamp-lit hour of the mind.
My hands are always aching then
to feel the words flow from the fingertips,
my mind impatient and yet afraid to open that font,
and my heart is pressed so
already, how can I distill this life? (which
has become thick and swimming with
sorrows and joys I do not understand
and there are monsters in the deep I had never imagined
until I came to dwell with them)
and hoping that my fingers will find some answer
that my soul has missed, I sit silent.
And watch the shadows dance on the lamp-lit wall
(The less you speak, the more they dance.)
until I find another night has fallen
on my weary wordlessness.
