Half my life I have stored secretlyLittle bits of every night I lived:
A bit of midnight, hours of dusk,
A moment from before the dawn,
A little of the dark hours,
When the last person goes to sleep.
I had kept these pieces of the nightStored in little round jars and urns;
So that when you come, if you come,
I could add these stolen hours
To keep you that much longer
For one long, meandering night.
But the wind, aware of my theft,Has run through my book-laden house
This wet, July day:
And all the jars are dashed to the ground.
You are not here,But my world has become,
A July-scented chapter,
Of a dark and protracted night.