Night

          is a shuddering child
          afraid to ask for light
          getting the idea to giggle
          over a smuggled torch,
          then tiptoe to the glow 
          of the dreams in Nod.

Night

          is a Van Gogh sky
          more indigo than navy, 
          star-whorled
          over a couple making love
          by a barely talking creek,
          not feeling a rock.

Night

          is a refuge, a threat,
          an endless wait,
          a comet, a promise,
          broken, or not.

Night

          is an owl or a nightingale
          or a siren, or all three.

Night

          is the throat of a rose,
          velvet meeting velvet,
          quicksand unseen.
          

          If we're brave luv, for you
          and for me.

         (c) Phyllis Jean Green, August, 2007