In the wee dark hours
of a tired morning, I see my reflection sing to me
Through foggy glass, holding a tall dark chimney
She’s asking me where I go at night
A figure appears
in a lonely corner
staring right through me
to steal all my light
When I was a child,
I thought I could find
A house without corners
Inside my mind
I think that if
that state had a name
It would be California
In an old picture frame.
But in the real,
West coast night,
the depth of darkness
feels like freedom
And the waxing moon
is half of a friend
WILDsound Writing Festival 