I was born a person whose breath weaves its own magic during the night hours.  When the world goes to sleep where I am,  my eyes widen to embark on their own journey.  Those sweet hours of the morning I have seen all the days of my life and have found thoughts traveling at a swift pace to their mark. When darkness appears, the air becomes electric with its own energy and the full symphony begins.

In These Sweet Hours. . .

In these sweet hours of the morning,
I sit in this chair, borrowed
from another room, where old bones
had not yet broken it in;  missing
the familiar one,  much loved
but grown musty.

Like me, I think, old and with thoughts
well worn but suitable for the mind
habiting them.  They’ve stood
the test of years that proved their mettle.

They’ve worn their courage
to the extreme and now will go
into the pages and take their place
as reference to a time long gone
but stable.  These thoughts worked.

They upheld customs and behaviors
and civilizations.  And families when they
could have crumbled never to be restored.
But when hand crafted was
a work of pride, so was the work of the mind. . .

stored now like vintage wine.