As the tide of souls rolls in and out,
tumbling along the shore of darkness
deep into the night,
I sometimes lay awake.
A time when I can cross a bridge
that leads me closer to myself,
where the trees trap day noise,
allow ideas to pass, leave behind
a trail of tattered clouds.
Where imagination and shadows develop
a brief, albeit mutual trust, as my cat moves silently
across the bed, the steady breathing of life and hope
and dreams a reassurance to confidence
at times confounded by day,
cultivated by night,
before the orange clip of dawn cuts softly
through frost and morning,
its felicitous figurehead filled
with the fidelity of promise.