world at witching hour

the humidity has died down

meaning my door now closes quietly

draped in grey cotton pajamas

this is my midnight life

as i listen to the murmur of august crickets

it rained today

a light mizzling mist that didn’t drench

but dampened spirits and soles

when i was a little girl

summers meant sunbaked grass

and cicadian cacophony

now my feet are blistered and bruised

the bottle of white pills

rests next to my elbow

the prescription is weak and i wonder

sometimes why i bother taking them

i am not usually this cruel

but unsought surprises require retaliation

if i lived in the world of fairytales

i would be the grown-up alice

still chasing the white rabbit

with child-like glee but wiser

what’s heroic about a heroine

who can’t survive sans hero?

not all who wander are lost

and neither have i been recently

stymied, yes, but striving

wandering alone but not all alone

the ephemeral mists of surreality

are sometimes safer than reality

i find my mental adventures exhausting

the field of green flowers looks so pleasant …