Insomnia gives one the chance to explore again all those guilts and anxieties that never seem to come to resolution, to go away or even fade. There’s a whole jukebox full of worries in the brain, and a windy night just keeps pumping in the quarters.
After a Windy Night
Wind blew in last night,
moaning through pines,
then blew out again
as I tossed and turned,
sweating up the sheets.
Some memories only
come by in the wee hours:
wrongs never righted,
infatuations born of folly,
long bouts of grieving.
Right back to childhood
they run, but still keen
as new, bleeding in dreams
of raw embarrassment,
spasms of pointless guilt.
So how, come dawn, does all
this darkling thinking
dissolve like sugar into
morning coffee, just as if
the night had never been?
And how, when wind returns,
do they re-emerge, these slick
worry stones, semi-precious
pebbles ground smooth in
the rock tumbler of time?
Secrets shared with the night
(and only shared with night)
tell us who we fear we are.
You have yours and I have
mine. Shh! Tell no one.
Note: unpublished draft
