Insomnia
She will not think of the troubles of the ones she loves, or of her own troubles. The night is long, but the days are rushing by, gone gone surely gone, and she thinks to remember what she might otherwise forget except for the gift of this endless night. She lists to herself the names of flowers that will bring butterflies to her yard next spring, and she tries to name the New World Warblers, thirty-seven in all, that rest in her honeysuckle tangles on their migratory journey, and she considers the miracle that happens when afternoon light in summer becomes the afternoon light of early fall.
