Sunday, 3:43 AM

In Daily Musings, Excerpts of Prose, poetry on February 27, 2011 at 4:03 AM

Well, here we are again. Bags by the door, hours away from a departure.
   One that SHOULD have happened at 20:50 .... Saturday.
           Last night, tonight, yesterday
The Hour of The Wolf, he calls it, a bleak solitude. ... 
.... And it creeps ...

   it creeps, he says, these thoughts, this inexplicable 
... I dunno.

           Tomorrow, Next Month, Next Year
                        Bags packed by the door. 
                        Awake at the Hour of the Wolf

Legends spoken over the campfire, stories about people.

All of us matriculating in their brief 
                                      beginning, middle, end

        the hero, the villain, the conscience, the hubris, the nemesis,
        the innocent, the mysterious, the magical, the alien, the teacher,
        the renegade, the fop, the bright star burning fierce, the spectre,

Wafting in, out of each other, at 3:43 AM, without time or place or reason.
   How sweet are the pockets of moments
the ones we encounter 
    when even the Hour of the Wolf cannot creep
under the skin, the heart, the mind; yes, those rare pockets
           when a story comes to life
           for one, two, maybe more
           to be shared, to be known only to myself or yourself
                stories come to life, breathing for us, 
                breathing new life into
                                    whatever pocket of moment 
we are so lucky to glimpse 

gentle caress
   sweet lingering kiss
           it's not all so bad, 
           not all of it


Copyright Kimberly Cox, 2011

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