Pieces of 3 a.m.
                                   
                                    Slip steel enters unwelcome,

                             wet cold, grumbling dusk-gray,
                             ridiculous.  Apple blossoms
                             hang ready to open and fall
                             again.
                        
                             Here we are, hungry and dull,
                             impatient for light, impatient
                             for violet blue, dark ocean blue,
                             baby powder blue, gold crimson fertile blue,
                             long horizon blue. 

                             Our own birth blue
                             will not give way
                             even to this cold, even
                             to this unscented candle glow
                             which is not ours to give.
                            
                             We wander unsteadily
                             in the spaces we are given
                               unmindful,

                             unable to fathom the silence
                             of lush river grass, fields of waving
                             stones, shared subtle breathing
                             that mourns the loss
                             of days too wet to ponder
                             love or sleep or wounds.