3:46 a.m. 

on a post-rain Kansas Monday. 

I try to wash away 

the sleepiness

from my insomnia laden eyes,

pick a fresh sheet of paper

spread clean it almost sheens,

like fresh snow on a sunny day. 

clean pen and magical colors. 

drop and watch in wonderment, 

as the colors bleed and waltz

into the white stillness. 

words never heard,

until this very moment

the ripe colours of autumn. 

a drop of sea, the harvest fields,

the washes of sunsets layer after layer,

and a moon laid on lake waters. 

a tender breath of green. 

a river filled with apparitions

here now—

then gone. 

wet roads winding around echoing hills. 

the crisp autumn breeze,

floating across the valley. 

steam rising from a coffee left at the deck. 

my eyes closed, 

I feel the calm glow of lights, 

at the water edge. 

the silent shadows. 

the peace of the morning air. 

Pen to paper again, 

as the pigeons rise. 

followed by the squirrel, 

and the downstair’s neighbor—

a flick and puff of his first vice. 

the trees rise, the day rises. 

night slowly walks, 

forward. 

towards the 

almost spring morning. 

 

 

~ Shane Christopher