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.