witching hour

 
You’re as cold as the stone wall you built

around me, a thin layer of ice shielding that

witching hour.

The silence becomes of you.

It is unbecoming.

In these minutes and minute little seconds,

it gives me nothing but time to think.

There are cicadas here; they scream when

night breaks, but say nothing when you arrive,

and I envy them for that.

The crows fiddle away into their own homes,

beaks as black as that night sky.

There is no light here-

hardly any air.