The sun has withdrawn its last warm rays,
leaving the earth to cool itself in the dark.
The ground relinquishes the warmth of the burning days,
as the air chills in the indigo dark.
A breath of wind ruffles my hair in passing,
pressing into my skin soft fingers of cold.
Greedily it snatches the warmth of my breathing,
giving in return a lungful of cold.
The silence seems to numb my cold ears,
no one else has ventured into the night.
I haven’t felt this alive in years,
Breathing and walking in the dark cold night.
My footsteps fall silent as I gaze at the sky,
glittering above my head are silvery stars.
Shining, remote, untouchable, high,
offering no warmth, are the faraway stars.
I breathe in the wonder, as well as cold night air,
savoring the joy of being quiet and alone.
No people to yell, jostle, interrupt or stare,
just me and the wind: content, alone.
Then the soft wind-fingers turn hard, I shake with cold,
sharp claws of chill air slicing through my clothes.
I feel small in the dark, chilled and certainly less bold,
I rub my arms through my cold clothes.
I turn and look towards the shadow of my home,
familiar comforts fighting the allure of stars.
My feet move before I think, carrying me in a backwards roam,
sorry I cannot answer the call of the stars.
Gold light pours through windows, and laughter, and noise,
I glance back over my shoulder at the stars I love best.
At the doorstep I stop, frozen and poised,
wavering, wondering which I love best.
I glance back at the empty, silent void of night,
remembering the soundless, lonely joy.
I look back at the windows, full of comforting light,
Remembering the laughter, the people, the joy.
I take one last breath of lonely air, opening the door to family and noise.
Sometimes light and warmth are best.
But I won’t forget the night, and its quiet, lonely joys.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
light and warmth are best.