It is late.

It is late, I say,
And I don’t mean the time of day.

Though darkness is visible as I write,
And the windows rattle in their panes
As they do only at night.

It is late beyond the ability
of any clock to tick or tock.

It is well past bedtime
In the long dark night of the soul.

It is late and the wind that blows
Does so from unknown poles.

This night unfolds around me, vast
And void and echoing with the silent Reverberation
Of galaxies in collision.

The stars know what time it is
And, flickering, tell me
I must make a decision.

Do I Burn as they do in spite of time,
Shards of glory luminous and sublime?

Or sputter and cough
And go blindly off, unaware
Who my relations really are:

The dust at my feet,
My brothers the stars.

It is late, as I’ve said, and I really ought to be in bed.

- Richard Cody, 2006 -