Somewhere in between
migraine and insomnia,
something other than dreaming wakes me:
a faint clawing along the upper spine
that moves through the base of the skull,
and pulls them out the wrong way,
a curious replaying of a day
that has not yet happened.
After three hours
of quietly turning upon my bed,
I get up and walk outside,
feel the cool of smooth stones
against my feet,
the defining air around my skin,
and wonder at the thin brightness
of a half-moon shining through the branches
of elm trees nearly as old as me.
It seems a bit odd
to play the chances of residential traffic
at three in the morning
but I’m pretty sure
no one’s headlights
are going to come shining through
for this particular view
of a man my age
standing in his underwear
and staring at the moon
as if it might have answers.
I know the Source I seek
and will wait for the speaking
that will come soon enough,
when I have made myself quiet and still,
ready to surrender to a Greater Will.