Poets Are Dreaming

Sometimes I stay awake all night because I still have a wild streak and rebel against those silly notions of wrist watches and grandfather clocks and bedtimes. The world is quieter, the stars are brighter, and I'm deliciously alone. Even the cat has gone to bed. The moon is waxing and set long ago. Somewhere sailors are navigating under the stars and writers are finishing up the final draft of their novels. Poets are dreaming of their first kiss or their last dance. Children are being conceived and ballet dancers are resting their sore and tired feet. There is magic in the dark that is gone with the light of day.