As I lay in my bed in the dark of the night when the world silently sleeps,
the trees rest and the sun grows dim
and the gleaming light of the moon casts a shine over the night-stained pond.
The poor old whip-poor-will rests from his journey to bask in the light of the stars
and the Moon-woman brushes past with a sudden sort of solemnness,
dabbing the tips of the grass with a silvery frost and leaving a diamond-like
dewdrop in the center of every flower.
The night is a gift to be enjoyed.
Windowpanes greet the stray leaves rapping against them.
The wind paints an invisible picture through the air whistling its way through,
raindrops adorning the leaves of the white oak tree like star-studded ornaments,
the frozen silver drops clinking together like chimes on a porch falling victim to
The pattering like little footsteps.
The night is a song to be listened to.
The wind carries the subtle smell of fresh grass,
of the just-wet mud,
and the aromatic wildflowers adorning the side of the field like jewels on a crown,
and the sleeping willow—the freshness of soft, sleeping nature.
The night is a fragrance whose scent is rarely recognized,
but it is the sweetest smell for those who realize it.
The round, glass orb of the moon, shrouded by wispy gray clouds, too shy to
show its face.
The clouds, like gentle, lavender-grey tufts of cotton candy, inviting you to fly
The stars, like pieces of hope chipped off of dreams themselves.
You let the night slowly, and silently, rock you to sleep, and fall into the sound of