Between Bruises and Blooms

There is a reason
the world grows quiet
at three in the morning.

Even the wind
begins whispering
instead of speaking.

This is the hour
when old houses remember,
when ravens dream,
when the moon
wanders barefoot
through empty fields.

Some people
are afraid of it.

I have always felt
it knew my name.

Perhaps because
it has watched me
cry without witnesses.

Perhaps because
it understands
that some women
only bloom
once the rest of the world
has fallen asleep.

By sunrise,
I will look
like everyone else.

But at three a.m.,

I belong
to magic.