insomnia

craving stars, I crept
down the crouching hallway,
disturbing only moths
seeking their own small
allowance of light

trees sleep, lowering
their limbs by fractions
as the day subsides,
leaving only the incremental
gestures of slumber

I have had to explain often
the peculiar edicts of insomnia,
and how it does no good
to seek why in the high
corners of the night

how it is better then
to slip into ready shoes,
and out into the expectant dark
where pivot the city’s
token of stars

© Sarah Whiteley

perfect hour

Sunday morning,
coffee made strong,
maple donuts fetched,
and you still asleep –
wrapped up deep
within my blankets
against the bustling cold
from my open windows

me in my chair,
mug in hand,
feet curled beneath me –
torn between watching
the startling sight
of a hummingbird
in fresh snow or the slow
rise of your shoulders
in bearish hibernation

© Sarah Whiteley

I did see a little hummingbird Sunday morning in the snow. I know of at least two feeders within a block, so I’m sure he’s getting fed, but still startling to see the little guy in the snow.

*

listening to the day’s
wakening heartbeat,
the unseen thrush
trilling in the still-dark
before the January dawn,
I can almost sense you
turn in your sleep –
and this is my survival:
even in the act of leaving
I am always coming home

© Sarah Whiteley

In one more short month, I’ll be heading (again) into lengthy workdays and ungodly hours. Somehow the thought of it is even more difficult this time around knowing there’s a warm and wonderful soul waiting for me at home. And yet… there’s a warm and wonderful soul waiting for me at home! How lucky am I?

the winter weather report

these long weeks while
the locust tree sleeps
unheeding of the rain
that drips from stems
and limbs, the seeking
beaks of the crows pull
seeds from their dangling
brown pods – a meager feed
worthy of the gray,
hungering days and watery dusks
outside my window

© Sarah Whiteley

One of a poet’s many blessings – any weather is poetry weather. 🙂 Happy Friday, my friends!

autumn’s end

the bees have succumbed to drowsiness
and the honeysuckle’s dropped,
replaced by the final asters
bowing low in blue reverence of sky

the river birches arch their yellow-graced
necks over the pond where drifts
of silver fish begin their quiet
descent to barely being

maples wait in flashing ranks,
upturned and expectant of lowering skies –
their red fingers signalling retreat
into stasis, when cooling saps no longer rise

and for now, we too forget our own restlessness –
stretching long in the last of the golden light –
hearts faint-pricked by the leaves’ moments
of letting go, watching the sun pull the light away

© Sarah Whiteley

Spending time with family in Wisconsin (and reminding myself once more why I live in a milder climate). Will catch up on reading when I return. Peace!

I might sleep better…

if I could unravel the day
at the end of it,
let it hang out the window
and weave itself into the wind

let the crows take what they may
and drag the bits away –
to line nests and tumble down
the sidewalk at dusk,

a curious thread of red
for wandering-hearted walkers
and transient orange cats
to watch and wonder at

© Sarah Whiteley

Check back later this week for a giveaway! I’ll be posting details on how to enter for a chance to win a signed copy of my little poetry chapbook, No Direction But Home.

I have been pondering…

I have been pondering
the madness of love
with the thought of you
like a fat spider
perched in its web
plucking at threads
I feel the reverberations
here with a strange pang
like rising too high
too quickly above the treeline
there’s madness there
in the small bits remembered
don’t believe me? look around –
I know just where it is
you see me
in the lone moments
where you wait unwilling
to stir further
the dust that stirs itself
in that chair, just there,
with the light behind me
and the dog in my lap
it’s where I realized
it’s the biggest mistakes
sometimes that set us free
you see? madness
and madness more so
that I yet love you
with the same surety
that I know you feel
me plucking
at the silk of you

© Sarah Whiteley

I am still having vivid dreams… and am at the same time battling the mother of all head colds. It is not pleasant – and it is not easy at the moment to string together cohesive thoughts. I’m at that stage where everything tastes like cough drops and my head is stuffed full of ether-soaked cotton balls. But I woke up this morning with this still ringing in my head and felt the need to get it out. If it makes any sense at all, hooray,… if not, blame the Nyquil.