sleeping apart again
Not yet midnight, and I wonder where all this dreaming goes
— the footfalls, the whispers, and all those unseen tributaries?
The frogs know, declaring like they always have before,
the oldest of lullabies: where there’s water there’s song.
The creek, it sings me to sleep, and the frogs. And the fog
that clings in the valley would be low and even were it to sound.
All that muted water. Like an om. A prayer. This I know.
Not yet midnight, and please let me hear you inside this song.