Hugged by thrumming bugs
and rustling green,
half stay wide awake,
while half fall fast asleep.
The constellation-lit cosmos
keep watch for the others-
whispering tales while
strange shadows smother
safety, sound, and their
fire’s faint embers.
Circadian rhythms came from this time
when nightfall meant peril,
and we relied
on our fellow human
ties to survive.
But here, isolated
in my kitchen’s mock light,
I can’t help but curse
my ingrained
sleep-wake cycle.
pm poetry 