It's now past midnight, but not yet dawn.
I'm in the hours which span between.
Land of the yearning, yielding yawn,
Where I am present but not seen.

There's silence now, where prior day's noise,
Deep dark where lightest light.
Distributing its unique joys,
From the starbox gift of night.

I can now better hear the book I'm reading,
And its typeface conversation.
Mind's nighttime garden ripe for seeding,
Free of daytime obligation.

My fertile thoughts so quietened by day,
Attention now duly given.
Everything they would like to say,
Free to fly, not diary-driven.

How delightful is this period of time,
A peaceful personal place.
When me to myself explains in rhyme,
I meet my true self face-to-face.