Everyone I know is asleep,
But I’m awake, writing poetry.

A gazebo,
trees gently swaying,
a brown-eyed girl softly singing —
She doesn’t know I’m here.

The owl takes a nap.
I’m awake.
My old dog limps to the door
and then decides there’s no one there.
I’m awake.

Mint tea, music, your hair.
You’re not actually here,
but the dew on the lilacs is.

Just an hour until dawn.
I will still be awake,
writing poetry.