Wait for me
In the place past midnight
Where the second hand marches into eternity
Away from the banality of hours
And the drudgery of minutes
We are told these dark empty spaces
Should raise us from sleeps
Or at least tighten
Our fetal clutches
In some unmade terror.
But this is where we come to meet
And stroll freely through
These dark hills
Shouldering winding paths
Fringed in the bright flowers unfolding
After a passing spring shower.
Shaken Rain 