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Writing Free-Verse at Night
Late at night,
when the crickets are
chirping
and dreaming of home,
I lay on my black-frame rack
with my nightlight on
stalking the elusive nightcrawler.
I must act quickly before it disappears forever
into the soil of
literary oblivion,
and is replaced by some moon-June
firefly
that shines for a moment
and dies.
It’s a matter of knowing
when to pick up the pen
and when to keep searching the
dampened sea of grass
for something better.
Bryon Howell
This poem is appearing in the
Poetry Journal Premiere Generation Ink.
Summer 2001
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