Maureen L. Smith
Late at night I sat upright in my bed.
The wind but a whisper, the air heavy with mist.
Who are you, I asked, that makes this night appear so strange?
You who make a heart beat so rapidly,
And tired eyes pierce into the darkness of the night!
May the light come forth to draw you out.
Let the morning sun creep into every
Corner of my room.
I long to hear the Whippoorwill,