3 a.m.
by Allen Thomas
Tired eyes lift slowly from the page
And for that unmeasureable interval gaze unseeing
Into the darkness of the silent middle distance,
Where nothing fills the empty space.
The mind stops. The thought that brought it here has left.
Time waits, becoming impatient,
"Take my hand when you are ready, and we will proceed again together."
At our feet, the old cat softly dreams her way toward the end of tale.
|