Night has fallen again, infinite
dark eternally regular.
And why shouldn't it be?
Why should I presume on you to notice
such trivialities - a simple broken heart,
one small death - in this immensity?

There is a field beside my house,
full of dandelions and clover
and knee-high, yellowed grass -
small jet ants and racestriped chipmunks
expire there as regular as a sundial's shadow
weathering the face of stone hours.

Do I deign to wear black for them?

You don your raven cloak
each evening, it's true;
but I don't believe for a moment
that any of this dim panoply
is for me - this was your routine
long before my trifling grief,

and even before yours.

03/22/2005

Author's Note: Compline = night prayer (after sunset, before bed). An imitation of poet Louise Gl�ck. She writes poems entitled 'Matins' and 'Vespers', addressed to God (or some higher patriarchal being), utilizing imagery of nature, and usually questioning something. My version. Got out of bed to write this, hence the title. Revised May 2007.

Posted on 03/22/2005
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