Poetry in the Night

When good night was over
and his eyes let go the light
she sat breathing in his being
and the wonder of the sight.

She wrote poetry in the night,
and he did not
for he was sleeping.

And in his head, one thousand lights
played a music barely heard.

As she wrote poetry in the dark,
he slept the sleep of angel flight,
soft and gentle, kind and right,
the heartfelt hues of morning light.

Every sigh was deeply felt
within her very being
for she was seeing him complete
as she wrote poetry in the night.

And in his head, one thousand lights
played a music barely heard,
but heard
tucked and sleeping there between the very words
of the poetry that she wrote sitting by his side.

She wrote poetry in the night.

—me strauss Letting me be