Ode to a Spring Night

the young buds of spring,
phosphorescent, glowing marshmallows,
at the end of tender branches
brought back to life
out of winter hibernation

everything appears like oil paintings,
stoic and ominous,
rigid with detail
taking on different forms
a changeling in the darkness of night

there is a sleeping quiet
broken only by the low hum
of power and the world out there
nothing moves-
everything is stopped in the mud of time

now is the time of rest,
of dreaming dreams,
and of the poet-
seeing the night,
for the first time.