Three a.m.

I often feel that my work is never done; that I never get a day where I can put it away. I have been working all night on a paper that I made little progress on again.

I long for something to cling to.

There is precious little in the world to cling to at 3 am aside from a lover or hope. When your papers are not finished and your eyes are too blurry to hold themselves open against the burning and the florescent lights these things seem far away and too intangible to rely on... there is the hope of feet on wooded paths, welcoming weather and the prospect of finishing the paper with fresh eyes and a cup of coffee. There are the facts of the night air, which is soft and wet and smells of leaves and twigs and the promise of freshly made doughnuts in the morning. But mostly, there is fog.

Tonight fog clings to the ground.Round and full she curves herself around the dips and rises of the earth like a lover.

Lovers and hope are what we cling to. No wish comes to us simply. There is always a twist. Tonight, ankle deep in this lover's fog I accept gratefully the twists.