not quite restless
When I can't sleep I sit in the quiet and dark of night: book-less, cover-less, companion-less. Having crept from my bed; stolen from my room; quietly emerged into the skin-tingling cold of the early winter, snowless nights; sit. I draw from my inner stores of silence, not allowing a muscle to move, lest I break the magic of the witching hour. I sit entranced, wrapped as tightly as I can manage, cradling myself; a mother-less baby. Minutes? Hours? Days? A seeming lifetime was spent in this very fashion this very morning. I owned the night-turning-early morning. I was thanked for my solitude, my watchfulness by a falling star; burning out as I too burnt out, spending the last stores of the previous days' energy. Sonnet 14 ("Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck") Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy; But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief...