(it was after all, The Middle Of The Night)

image: Tina Urso McDaniel 2017

I found a poem
Floating

Somewhere in the space
Between waking and sleeping

At first
    I didn’t even know I was awake
    it was just words, sentences, thoughts
    I only noticed:

        not sleeping,
        mind chattering,
        get back to sleep


But the words continued


my mind lay blinking at the ceiling,
trying to understand
where it was wandering and why
It was not asleep

Slowly
it found itself saying
No, not that word, this one;
Here’s another...

Oh! I realized.
I am writing a poem!

I stopped and listened,
Recited back what I had so far.
Began crafting what I could

No doubt, this poem was powerful.
Inspiring. I could feel its energy pulsing

I knew it was now or never,
my pen & notebook calling, but...
Tired, so tired

Part of me was determinedly still asleep,
Or would be again any moment;
It didn’t care at all about the poem.

An argument began.

The rest of me felt that somehow I must get up, but...

I didn’t have to do anything,
Who was in charge here?
Was I desperate?
Inspiration comes and goes all the time;
There would be other poems...

(not this one though; its glimmer and shine
seemed quite particularly of the
Now. but...)

I was
So
Tired.

Sleep
is a Spirit
I have learned to
respect:

    Processor of
        Underground Worlds,
        Spiritual Mysteries,
    Healer of Body and Psyche,
    Feeder of Creative Fire.

She was quite clear in this moment,
seemed to be making a point of letting me know
She expected me to
take a stand, draw the line here.

You can let this go, She said.
Let someone else have it.
I knew She was right.

My muscles already softening,
I began releasing my grip,
was already losing lines

I tried to imagine the Someone,
A more alert Fisher Of Poems,
Who at this moment stood,
light on, coffee steaming as they
Sipped and Waited.

They needed this more than me,
Had been at if for hours, when suddenly
I rudely woke and grabbed it out of the ether,
for no good reason at all.

I give this back to you;
Please find it.
Shining, alive poem;
Make it your own.

Relieved, nestling into warm covers,
I sunk deep into the dark and tidal pull of sleep and

let
it
go.