witching hour
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The clock blinks3:33. Again. The candle cracklesthough there is no breeze. The catstares into a cornerwhere nothing stands— or perhapswhere something does. Outside,the trees swaywithout permission. Inside,my coffee has gone cold,my cigarette burns itself away,and another poemarrives uninvited. People askwhere inspiration comes from. I never knowhow to explainthat it knockspreciselywhen ghostsbegin changing shifts.
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There is a reasonthe world grows quietat three in the morning. Even the windbegins whisperinginstead of speaking. This is the hourwhen old houses remember,when ravens dream,when the moonwanders barefootthrough empty fields. Some peopleare afraid of it. I have always feltit knew my name. Perhaps becauseit has watched mecry without witnesses. Perhaps becauseit understandsthat some womenonly…
Between Bruises and Blooms 