Nightworld

When in the dead of the night the songbirds sing

and spell the verses constellating around the balcony —

a miracle happens / the melancholy night rolls back and time and dream form a current

of some unsung philosophy

which only those who sing in the dead of the night

can philosophize.

The shadows scatter and mend the personae /

am I the song or the silence the song so fills?

The day and the night both divine the definition. The summer blooms wrap tight

around the fecund fruit / the human splendors

the power of mind encapsulizes.

In this nightworld of uncertain identities / shadows

resign the difference between us — either are we not

the song of melancholy or the herald of the light.