The Quiet Hours/Birthing
The Quiet Hours/Birthing Like pregnant clouds barely afloat, I yearn for sweet release – Routine meals leave me starving. Every measured sip parches me. I cannot sing with a barren throat. Certainly, I cannot sing over the malign hum of Habit. So, I wait for the Quiet Hours to roll around. Its tender silence heralds my muse; she holds but a flask. One swig, then another, and again ‘til my being brims with renewed spirit. – and in my newfound vastness, I cast my rains down unto parchment, and my thunders coalesce into songs. And when I am spent, I wait yet for the Quiet Hours to come.