April, and the last of the plum blossoms <br />scatters on the black grass <br />before dawn. The sycamore, the lime, <br />the struck pine inhale <br />the first pale hints of sky. <br /> An iron day, <br />I think, yet it will come <br />dazzling, the light <br />rise from the belly of leaves and pour <br />burning from the cups <br />of poppies. <br /> The mockingbird squawks <br />from his perch, fidgets, <br />and settles back. The snail, awake <br />for good, trembles from his shell <br />and sets sail for China. My hand dances <br />in the memory of a million vanished stars. <br /> <br />A man has every place to lay his head.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-sleepless-night/
