Walt Whitman wrote:
“THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou
Night, sleep, death and the stars.”
In the quiet of all midnights inner thoughts become awakened. The arousal of my solitude brings forth a multitude of images, sounds, textures, smells…a full disclosure of earthly senses. Thought processes reach out to greater conclusions and in the softest, gentler hour past answers forgave their questions.
Eleven fifty-nine, end of days near
Absolute darkness save a moonlit sea
My thoughts breaking silence, alone I hear
Delicate whispers, wind upon cedars
Moon’s yawn in the wane of night’s recession
The sea in all iridescent shimmer
None other could be heard nor seen, save for
Utterance of a seal lion’s bellow
In the cloak of greater serenity
No truer distinction, night upon days
Of self and soul without limitation
Abidance of custom shall nonetheless
Proffer guidance as rules of engagement
And lo, upon the stroke of midnight’s pass
Conclusions, a birth of new days waiting
© Don MacIver 2013; All Rights Reserved
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