Night’s Cadence

The eastern seaboard
Is blushing with the first
Rays of morning
But in my bedroom
The clock keeps
Night’s cadence.

Four o’clock
And all’s well.

The house sleeps.

My granddaughter
Who fussed a moment ago
Returns to dreams she had so recently
Abandoned.
Beside me, my wife breathes deeply
Arms crossed ‘neath her breasts.
My little dogs awakened
To wonder at their master
The nocturnal scribe
Before returning to
The boarders of dreams.

Soon the wakening rays
Will race the land
Tapping the uppermost branches
Of ancient trees
The tips of church spires
And the lips of factory towers.
But for now the nation sleeps.

But not all.

Long haul drivers forge ahead.
Morning lovers tumble.
Traffic cops sip hot coffee
From paper cups.
Drug dealers ply their trash.
Trash haulers load their junk.
Gas station attendants yawn and stretch.

But not here.
Here the house sleeps.

And I will try again.
Perhaps dreams may yet return me
To lilac fields.
To rain-wet Chicago streets
Aglow by vapor light.
To the belly fire
Of snow-clad Sangre de Christos.
To arms that embraced me
And whispered devoted love.
Or perhaps I too
Will have a purpose
Possible only in four’oclock
Fantasies
That will make me laugh
By day’s glare.

But just now
It is enough
To hear my little dog snore
Content in the knowledge
Green grasses await him
When the rose of dawn
Stirs my sleeping home.