Solitude (2) Poem by W.I. Stoneberger

I like it when the others sleep
and I creep,
trying not to let the floorboards creak.

And the night is quiet
is still.
And the night is quiet
is mine.

And I am not just me,
but everything.
And it all breathes.

There is a rhythm available
at no other time of the day,
a gentle flowing
a knowing of many things
that daylight refuses to disclose.

Everything slows to serene,
just right for thinking
for writing down the details
that the sunlit hours strobbed
and sped past me,
time to catch them
collect them
and sort them out.

There is a power in silence,
in the solitude
that speaks without words,
a prayer heard with the heart.

In those hours,
I have a peace within me
that allows my mind
to roam easy,
to explore every nook
without fear of nakedness.
And it all dreams.

Everything evolves into an energy
that steeps and brews,
smooth as chamomile tea
on a winter's evening.

I like it when the others sleep
and there's barely a peep,
as night settles in deep.