Is it strange that here,
In the feeble light of newborn day,
Burning the ghost of energy long expended,
I can do my best thinking?

I sit in the darkness,
Slowly draining through the windows,
As the cherub hand of fresh light reaches out and grasps it like a plaything,
Selfishly stealing it from me.
Whisking away the dark that whispers sweet verse in my ear,
And leaving me bare in its view.

Right now,
In the last dredges of dark,
When just the spine of the sun is visible on the horizon,
I can turn a phrase,
I can find words lost once burned with day.
I can capture in the space of a page,
A snapshot of my consciousness,
Which flies free
In large loops and corkscrews,
Only now in the fading hours before dawn.