by Ruth Latta
What apparitions, doubts and fears emerge
when night-time comes and I must close my eyes!
A day well spent is not enough to purge
the images with sharp insistent cries.
Where are the happy scenes from days?
Were they not stored in memory’s chambers, too?
Where are the ghosts of friends who sang my praise?
They’re dead and gone and never said “Adieu.”
Imagination is a splendid tool
in daylight when pursuing writer’s craft,
and consciously, I tried to make a rule
to switch off at night. Oh, what a laugh!
But who would trade the ability to write
merely to have a bland, untroubled night?