It’s 25 past midnight, and the earth
is quiet now while I prepare to sleep.
As if fatigued from having given birth
to yet another yesterday, we creep
together to our rest, environment
and I, arrange our wraps of fog or down,
salute the sky with mute intelligence,
appreciate the gravity of ground.

Today I walked through rhythm-scented air
with songs as light as lint propelling me.
I teemed with melody; I almost seemed
a harvester of elegy and prayer,
composting an organic symphony –
but then was loud, and now it’s time to dream.