Yesterday, I sat bolt upright in bed at 4:00 a.m., and I knew there was no way I was getting back to sleep. About half the time, I'd spend those hours desperately tossing and turning, but I decided to try to do something creative with my time. I wrote a poem instead of worrying, and that felt good.
(Photo by Leonid Tishkov and Boris Bendikov. I love their collaboration in this series of moon photographs.)
Four in the morning, some internal switch flips on.
I roll onto my stomach and ask the fat slice of moon
if there is more sleep in my future.
"Get up, get up," she answers.
"Behold my golden glow.
Feast your eyes on my shimmering potential.
You don't think I got this lavish and simple and mysterious
by sleeping all night, do you?"
I look to the summer constellations for backup,
but stars are horrible conversationalists.
I guess it's my fault for never remembering their names.
"Get moving," the moon says.
"Go make something."
She's probably right.
In a few hours, the house will sing
where is my tennis racket,
my ponytail is too loose,
please pick up this short list of eighteen items at the hardware store.
But for now,
just heavy air, empty space, silence.
"Go on," she says. "Go on."
Maybe it's a gift.