Waking again at the magic hour of 3:00 in the morning the darkness brushing the walls of my room, I remembered a poem I wrote about waking. I decided to share it with you.
When it gets quiet at night,
the sounds of the world drop away
one by one into the cool indigo silence
of the world sleeping.
Sometimes, then in that cushion of darkness
one can hear the wee sounds of the in-between.
Like a small bell far away,
or like an engine idling, waiting for passengers
sometimes like a radio just beyond audible reach.
voices down the street, wafting from an open window
to your ear.
Like the earth humming an ancient song.
Why does this happen
when one is alone in the star shine
wondering about the night and her secrets.
The moon’s full, belly light
shines through the window
slicing the dark into large bites
yet the still small voices murmur
as I lay with my eyes wide open.
Is it because the veil is thin?
The three o’clock call
waking us from sleep.
I am not the only one.
Others admit this waking hour
and sometimes they too
hear the ethers breath
of night sound.
It is curious,
a wonder and an irritant all at once.
Uncomfortable to recognize
like the stranger ‘s eyes
in which you see yourself.
wrapped in night cushion
I lay listening.