The Poet's Retreat

It is midnight. The world outside sleeps.  
 
I ache to write a poem, to do something  
lustrous with the day,
though the day has been a poem  
in itself,
a soft, tiny sadness and grief.  
 
In the living room, constellations of my being,  
the delicate farmhouse and Victorian decor  
I treasure.
The burgundy silk table runner  
and crimson roses,  
 
pillows like overstuffed letters
bearing news of an old world.  
The cat sleeps tucked into the white,  
crochet coverlet like a furry fist
and pictures on the wall
pronounce this a happy home.  
 
It is all timeless.  
Only the television belies my century.  
 
I am alone amongst beautiful things,
a stranger in a gorgeous but barren country.  
 
Soon I will slide like a hand
into the warm, comforting glove of my bed,
burrowing into the frilly, blue blankets  
 
as alone as a fetus
 
my thoughts racing,  
restless in my solitude,  
 
and finally,  
 
Dream.