It is that time and I hear you call but it is a
ghost haunting ahead of its moment, a voice
that urges and implores before the need is even
more. Each night I will pause and listen and
hear: sometimes it is the shout that pierces,
or it is just shadow, the dark echo from before
rounded out to an almost sound as if real.
And I respond. I rise and wait and listen and
hear the eventual silence like some blessing;
and blessed, I take my place back in the
queue to await the sound of your actual call,
whenever there is the impulse of your need.
And as the time comes for your sharp appeal
it is a call I am so well rehearsed to heed.