Nocturne

September 7, 2008

I will leave before the sun rises,
when the last of the moon is paling
and the stars are winking out.
I don’t like to be about when sleep
wears thin, and people fumble.

I lose the words.
I want the night back
the dark and encompassing cloud
the song of the wind
the screech of the owl
the rustling in the grass.

I hear a call I can’t refuse to answer.
It will pull me from my bed,
pull me from your arms
carry me away

come the dawn…