There are storms in the memory of sleep.
What I remember though is not what happened.
What happened was more than enough.
And through the opened window, what the trees had to say was
          the rest of my life.
My life then was the light that creeps in back of a storm, the
          light against the downpour, against the shake of thunder.
          I pace window to window, room to room — a flood
          always in my thoughts.
Maybe every sleep carries its own storm.
Maybe every sleep waits like a kindness never given though felt
          as if everything depended on its smallest word. Waits
          for the next morning. And the next.