Night Songs

The wicker chair on the porch, the open screen:
The air at 3 AM smells slightly strange - 
stickly, sweet and stale, vanilla tinged -
I'd say honeysuckle but I've never met one -
and its song between the day seems unsure
Which note to carry, stillness or whispers
Of the other time. 

Across the street, voices
With a beer tinged lilt talk of mysteries
Immature and dreams deeply felt, vaguely
Seen. They drift into the hum of silence,
reminiscing youth of a future not yet lived.
The birds skitter with the stars, twinkling tunes
in echo light - a tweaking of the dawn
that’s yet to come in the hours I hope to sleep -
the mind needs calm exhaustion, but mine
has thoughts of a thousand ifs
aswirl in the multiverse of night.