In the middle of the night,
things find you.
A long way away, a dog’s bark,
like a long muffled clap.
The creak of a tree outside the bedroom
window where you lie.
Moonlight, through a curtain’s crack,
dividing your bookcase in two.
A lone spider spinning
her silken web across this silver sliver.
Slipping from your fingertips in the dark,
the weathered outline of an old favourite book.
Closing eyes, hair rustling softly,
you roll into the beginning of a dream.
Then your own breath in time,
your own unadorned chest,
just rising and falling,
rising and falling.
© 2008 rosie schriever
