It's almost past midnight. With the soft tick-tick of the clock in my room and the faint, distant music from outside, I somehow like this moment. Now that nights have grown colder and quieter, and the breeze is crisp, I can even listen to the tree in our backyard. And I'm inclined to believe my thoughts are being heard too.
The rustle of a page turning echoes in the room. I set the book aside to look outside again, to hear the tree. Somehow I remember the books in my wishlist, although many on the bookshelf still sit unread, waiting to be opened.
Yet I seek a new adventure in this mundane and cold night perhaps the darkness reveals its own story too, and it is for me to find mine.
soft glow
of the streetlamp
in the misty night. . .
the immersion
in our lost sighs
Thanks to the editors - Timothy Daly and Oana Cercel
Link- Cold Moon Journal
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