the poetry of dark mornings

This starts with reading, as do many stories in my life. I love to read, and the only time I find to read is at night, after I've stared at a computer screen for eight or nine hours straight, picked up groceries, made dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, squeezed in some excercise, interacted with the boy child, driven him somewhere and back, given the BF some undivided attention, helped with homework, fed the cat and the chicken, hauled out the trash, glanced through the bills, watered the plants, assured myself that all is well with everyone and everything in my purview, and taken a hot bath. It's usually between eight and nine p.m. when I can finally crawl into bed and read, but by then I am tired. I read as long as I can, and then I fall asleep, often way too early. Consequently, by four in the morning, I've had my seven hours and I'm wide awake. But I hesitate to get up and shuffle around because I will wake other creatures who will either be irritated or want something from me. So I lie quietly in bed and think my thoughts. Sometimes I meditate. Sometimes I worry. Random thoughts, new thoughts, obsessively re-worked thoughts. Every now and then I solve a problem. Sometimes I lull myself with a smooth pattern of deep breaths in and out. Occasionally I am inspired, lying there in the quiet dark, with only the late summer crickets for company. This morning, at four a.m., the first thought to enter my head was a haiku:

picturing themselves
naked, exposed, shivering,
the trees blushed scarlett

I suppose I felt them tremble, felt them just barely moving the white cotton curtains through the still open window, in the first cool evenings of Fall.