On a night when my brain won’t rest, done with sleep and much on my mind,
I pad across the bamboo floors, tight and quiet and warm on my bare feet.
Lightning stripes the sky from behind the two-crested hill in pulsing waves–
No wonder I’m restless.
Light leaks from room to room in most of
This glass-crazy house, but I witness the silent show from
The window-seat. The light, once I turn it on, puddles quietly into
The angle that contains only me,
And my mate can still somehow sleep.
Windows are for letting in the wind.
Wind blows upstream off the river, charging the house with energy,
Here, the sun descends in the morning.
As it climbs over Tivy Mountain behind me, over the house,
It slides down the hill we call Choinumni, waking it from crest to base.