It’s dark here on the pond.

For some, it’s the middle of the night,

but here in these quiet hours before the light

of another day,

I take my pen and find these words

that come to me from who knows where

and scratch out what matters to me now,

though I don’t know why

and wonder if I care.

I could stay asleep or sit here

and be quiet like the night,

but now I hear the wind outside

and know a storm is in the air

and as I listen to the thunder

I want to speak

and wonder who will hear

these words that rise in me

and pour out on the page

in their silence.

They will not make the world less hungry

or stop a war,

or bring back honesty and innocence

to those who rule,

nor heal the madness

that makes murder,

or take away the greed

that makes so many cruel.

And yet, I sit here every morning

in this darkness before dawn

and write as if I’m praying

that the wonder that I see and feel

will somehow swirl into the world

and someone, somewhere

will feel me touch them.