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