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This year, one-thousand prayers

of “strained affection and grief.”

Turn over, Alabama moon;

I am full and you are waning.

Start again, my nighttime fear;

Shout again. The Horse is hear.

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What is pleasure in the dark? Is it,

visions of glory while bound in chains?

Or despair for love without any pain?

Not to rhyme again, but oft do they feel the same.

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A chair that’s not quite right, the shirt’s just a bit too tight.

So watchful are young, old eyes.

I am the bird that chirps at night,

and Summer, lo; but the Son does rise.

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PBWY,

G. Wesley