Inexplicably awake,your small voice seems to fill the night,
narrating the undreamt darkness.
Buoyant boy, your brain is bright —
brimming words and bursting wide,
a poet at the age of three.
I can’t forget that time you said
There’s too much morningtime in me,
explaining why you once again
were waking in a world that slept.
This sudden need for passing on
the words that rattle in your depth —
it’s new to you. You don’t know yet
how silence slowly floods a man.
Insomniac child, wide-eyed wordsmith,
speak now while you can.
Too Much Morningtime by Jesse Keith Butler | Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
