, , , ,

wee hours of the morningI’m becoming intimately acquainted
with Wee Hours of the Morning.
I meet her almost nightly
as I wander room to room
trying to walk off muscle cramps
or sitting in the chair with ice packs
behind my back or
wrapped around my ankles.

She is an astute companion,
sitting quietly with me,
listening to the hum of the fridge,
the occasional passing of a car.
Not one to interrupt my pained moaning
as I try to relax those muscly knots,
she is never insulted when I
take my leave of her to return to bed
in the hopes of snatching a bit more sleep.

I should ask how she came by her name,
Wee Hours of the Morning.
But sitting here in the dark with her
it seems like such a sacrilege
to break this communion that we have.

And as much as I take comfort
in her darkly peaceful companionship,
I would be just as happy to take my leave
and allow her to go on her quiet way
seeking others to comfort and calm
while I finally settle down to hopeful sleep.
Others like our friend down the street
who wanders the house at night
looking for his wife who just passed.

I wonder, does Wee Hours ever sleep?
Or does she just fade away with the sunrise,
content to wait in solitude for the dusk
and the stars and the moon, and the time
when restless spirits endure the darkness
and all the different kinds of pain there are.
Is there ever a night when SHE is lonely,
craving companionship without the need
to minister to those who haunt the night?

She seems the soul of kindness and nurturing.
Would it break her heart to know I wouldn’t care
if I never had to see her again?