May 8 by The Running Son
The day poem
What if I decided
to make my day my night.
I mean, the overnight posting of letters
and kisses has its
midnight sort of elegance.
Why not sleep all day
and make nights the time I fight
traffic blocks, perform
soul work, and force heart valves open
to wave others through?
It happens at night:
and far reaching pleas for daylight
to shine into the dark and quiet.
There are no days where moon-riding
writers are not standing by,
day-like and knightly, wishing some
star field silver movement would close in,
wrap them with new wings,
take them to true wind currents, at levels
only dream about in sleep.
All nights have their day, somewhere.
and days have work to do.
Then they must retire each night, and dream.
by Jim Aldrich