Hatches of the Night Owls

When

the night comes

(and it will), we must

batten down our hatches.

We will remember sweet sunshine

on our necks, in our eyes,

hoping to stave off

evening blues.

It feels

like winter

every time when

the sun leaves, and we

decide we’ve been completely

abandoned by the world.

But we must weather

these storms of

midnight

rumination.

For on our horizon,

is another sunrise, blotting

out the doubts and lies that haunt us

when we’re desperate for sleep.

Defy with me the old

inkling that dark

thoughts are

more

frightening

when it’s late. If

fading memories of

summers long gone are not

enough to scare our nightmares

away, we can peek through

the cracks of our

battened

hatches

and look for the

moon and her stars, who

will guide us throughout our

misery. Because sunlight cannot

save night owls, who find

themselves renewing

nocturnal rituals

that are

supposed to

keep malaise at bay.

When the night comes, we will

dwell in darkness like our kindred, who

knew centuries before, that it was

ripe with opportunity for

telling stories about

warriors, who

battled

at dusk

because it was

easier to catch their

demons after twilight. When

the night comes, we will be ready

with melting candles and spearmint tea

to free us from yesterday’s grief.

But first, we’ll batten down

our hatches to

keep

out preying

apathy, remembering

that despair can be remedied

in the bleak with the aid of celestial

bodies and memories of times

when we weren’t so

afraid of our

thoughts.