THE TWILIGHT ZONE

                    When, shortly after rising in the morn,
                    And tending to our dogs and their concerns
                    I come to sit here where my poems are born
                    To find which way my seeking spirit yearns—
                    Some dream or figment, memory or notion
                    Before too long will render up a theme
                    And, shortly after, set my pen in motion:
                    A recollection or perhaps a dream,
                    Which turns, just past midway, toward clarity,
                    As comprehension of my bent then brightens,
                    And what’s implicit clearly comes to be,
                    A presence that reveals, sometimes enlightens,
                         Out of the twilight, now at last in day:
                        What was mute and inchoate has its day.

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