Front Porch

The front porch, evening, dark and the air close,

storm clouds swirl above me.

Myriad stars intermittently poke
their heads out like a frightened child.

I gaze left and right down the paved thoroughfare,

I imagine thy neighbors houses bunched together

like a freshly-cut loaf of bread.
Can they hear my snores at night?

I long for the trees and the nearby forests they inhabit,

that infinite nothingness.

It soothes thy soul and inspires thy mind.

A distant light from across the bay.

Is it calling to me?

I tilt my head right a few degrees,

it disappears.

I readjust and it appears again. 
A boat maybe.  I will have to find out.

A stiff wind whips the indigenous grasses

like long, flowing hair

in front of the house across the road.

It rests on the water’s edge,
the bay front.

The light pollution stunts my senses. 
Nighttime was not intended so.

What I would give for the tranquility of the woods.

It’s dark there at this hour. 
I long for the continuous sounds of crickets chirping and
the brief illumination that the lightning bugs emit.  

A mind at peace,

with thoughts only of nature,

is rudely interrupted by the bite of a mosquito.

He doesn’t live much longer. 
Creativity thrusts from my mind,

seeks a release of its energy through my 10 fingers.

The computer’s keyboard calls to me,

but I am tired, so I resist.

I worry not, for my
poetic vision will not escape me during my slumber.  
The night calls out, begs for me to stay. 

I turn to the front door,

extend my right hand,

I whisper to the night,
“I will return.”

Does the night miss my presence? 
Only Mother Nature knows for certain.
I shall return soon,

do not despair oh silent night.