Three O'Clock In The Morning

Three o'clock in the morning in a stately apartment house,
When embers have winked their last in the fireplace,
And walls, wrapped in robin-egg's blue and celestial, vault upwards toward white moldings,
Ignore the frost on the darkened trees outside;
When burbles of steam and the occasional tick of a radiator
Count the minutes to sleep,
I sit and listen.

Can you hear it?
The anticipation of tomorrow,
Almost here, on its way,
Not yet day, but too much awake to be night.

The courtyard lies still, the street slumbers,
The flame and gold leaves on the walkways
Embrace in final repose,
The cat flicks an ear, then sighs,
I sit and listen.

Can you hear it?
The whisper of dreams
So quiet, you might nod off
And miss it.