In the wee Sonoran hours
The haunt of unknown sound circles
the room, window open, screened against
the dark, the other window dusty,
night is an animal that seeps
through cracks, curls around ledges
oozing into corners
a shadow carrying mystery.
Simple pitch wrapped in indigo
lurks at the edges of the bed
whispers fear into my bed catching
on family worries and world sorrows,
steals warmth from under
my bunched up covers.
It’s then I turn to the plethora of stars
nothing bigger than a fleck of beauty
with all the power to canonize night
as a sacred chimera playing divine games
that melt to a fading meteor
a hint we might have missed
a glimpse of the holy again.
I close my eyes and sueño con los angelitos.
Sharon Mooney, “In the wee Sonoran hours”, From “Revealing Everything”, a poetry anthology", ed., Kevin Watt, Feb, 2022, California