The Insomniac Speaks in Winter by Maya Jewell Zeller Night is my balcony where the new sky drips as it will drip the rest of my life but not the way it used to pull soft from itself and wrap me like a scarf. Twenty seven years I’ve slept lighter and lighter. The nasturtiums are still brown with winter. Winter still holds the tulip bulbs and keeps the garden dirt soft and sodden, but the clod in my chest is heavier than this because last summer’s drowsy nodding was cut away with the cherry tomatoes, the yellow beans, with the last roots pulled and chopped for compost. Tomorrow my love will hold me and show me the orange glow of morning, show me the sungleam sparking the river. I think that I will want to go there and walk into those waters where trout float like bees from the darkness. theMeadow 15
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==