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 … Continue reading insomnia

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 … Continue reading perfect hour


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) … Continue reading *

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 … Continue reading autumn’s end