When the World Sleeps

When the World Sleeps

When the last street‑lamp sighs and the city’s pulse slows,
the night folds its dark shawl over roofs and rivers,
and every window glows a lone candle‑eye—
the world has slipped beneath a soft, hushed blanket.

I step outside the hum of human breath,
and the air is a cool parchment waiting for ink.
A pine‑branch lifts its silver tongue,
whispering stories older than stone,
telling of meteors that fell to seed the soil.

The creek—thin silver thread in the moon’s palm—
gurgles gossip of distant mountains,
its water spilling secrets to the mossy bank,
while fireflies flicker like shy punctuation marks.

An owl, the night‑librarian, opens a vellum wing,
its hoot a low‑key verse, a question to the stars:
“Who listens when the world pretends to dream?”

Leaves rustle in a chorus, each leaf a voice,
the wind conducting a symphony of sighs—
a rust‑and‑whisper, a rustle‑and‑hum,
the language of leaves that only night can translate.

In this quiet cathedral of darkness,
the earth breathes in measured stanzas,
and I, a lone listener, tilt my ear to the soil,
trying to hear nature’s late‑night talk—

a poem written in wind, water, and wing,
read by the moon, signed in dew,
and forever echoing in the heart that stays awake
while the whole world lies still.