Why does man struggle much to sleep,
But tossing tarrying the night is poured,
He knows it better to release
The day, its struggles and rewards,
But holding it too long he finds
Such ruin as in many of his grasps,
Making ruinous a smile in kind,
He shows contempt for his own task,
Nay there is grace if even it should seem as none,
For look and yield the day is not yet done!

The quiet of an open field,
Is no quiet quite at all,
But something more, something fuller,
It's the carried chatter of the birds,
The sliding of the wilding grass,
The transient wind which always seems to hang about such places -
I wonder why I ever filled it when I ought participate.

Speed shopping for the choice is quick,
The long bridge to disparate indecision,
Charred and marked in the bonfires licks,
I shall not stand an over-deliberation,
But dress myself in ease to pick.

A mild beauty in the nighttime reflections,
Soft edges from the glowing walls,
More detail than my mind dare render,
All framed in window reflections small.