In the daytime when all is bright and clear and the singing birds are flying around and free.
The passerby is walking briskly to the unknown destination.
And the young girl is talking animatedly to her smiling father.
Now, the poet on the bench sleeps.
For there are no metaphors in the sun and no sonnets with the birds.
He cannot find an ode with the passerby,
and word play is impossible with children.
He will wake when the sun comes down.
And he will stare at the beautiful piece the heavenly painter called the night.
His hand will itch to spill words on paper,
and by the time the shooting star passes, his fingers will be numb from use and palms stained with hues.
He will write of the daytime he sees while he sleeps .
One where he isn't a lonely poet and his art isn't bound to the moon, but the melody of the young girl's laughter.
Then when the sun begins to rise,
he will close the pages of his penned night and drift in sleep waves to the unspoken morning.