drinking tea past midnight

it’s tea now
in those late night hours
moving slowly toward dawn
to ease the mind
not numb it
with whiskey
a peace sought
much needed
these days months years
as the clock ticks
toward the hour it stops
and whatever awaits
is finally here

“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.