Time I Carve For Myself

I hear the alarm and I think what? Not already! I have been up and down all night. My usual pattern, I am used to it in many ways, because nighttime is my quiet, creative, thinking time. I started fully enjoying the middle of the night when my children were small, because it was the only time I could carve out for myself. When they were freshly stork-deposited, I woke at every creak, peep, gurgle, and cough. A whisper had me imagining a giant bull snake slithering toward the nursery. I would swiftly be outside their door, turning the knob with the slowness Of wallpaper breathing, and I could hear that too. I would tiptoe in, trying not to wake them And watch them sleeping with their Darling little mouths, agape, drool Spilling onto their lamb-designed sheets. Now they are grown, and the grandchildren Do not visit during the week so this is not My three a.m. reason for being awake. Like a jumping jack ma, I jump up at three, Almost every night, thinking perhaps the quiet of the house has awakened me. Listening, but hearing nothing else, It is the only guess I have. Nothing can be done about this. My body has convinced my brain that three a.m. has always been the best time for me. So here I am, awake, pen ready, staring at a lined page. Ready to start. I glance at the clock. It is not three. It is two. WHAT?