my witness, bright night

Four a.m.;  the fourth of December.
The sort of morning to nip the heels of winter.
I witness to me, awake as I sleep.
I wake till I sleep, I sleep, I remember.

This year, I am bigger, I am older.
Time past has passed by to crowd these bones -
Corporeal tenant mine, O birdie on my shoulder:
Tonight, I am fine - so tonight, you must go.
Pity me, you came back just when I’d grown.

O forgive me, little voyeur.
Some things I do, I must do alone.

But one last thing before you’ve flown:
Tell me, comes the dawn, or no?
Something of this dark makes me not quite so sure
Night-morning-morning-night-morning, it’s been so.
But shrugs her birdie shrug; it’s not up to her.

Birdie has no feet to walk
But wings to fly
Birdie beak to birdie talk
But no birdie ears, no birdie eyes.

Away, away, new silence comes once she’s away.

Here is the stillness,
That quiet of the place where it ends.
Warmth of the moment,
Soft be the place where that long minute bends.

It’s late, real late.
Still breaks the fog this way:
Will my night be done?
You ask the wrong question.
No, will my day be done?

Be done, my day.

Spider on the ceiling, now I'll ask of you:
Am I still young?
It’s late enough now, friend, you can speak true:
Was I young?

Oh, watch, look, see with your eight eyes: the sun will rise

Cold yellow morning come to greet me,
Meet me
Bright Night has come
Long Day is done