A night poem

The frogs and cicadas whisper,
just at the edge of hearing,
chirping, cheeping,
a jumbled beckoning,
the air-
heavy with damp and dark,
hints at memories with no name,
calling, calling,
urging me to pick it up,
that shawl of sorrows,
and stand, listening,
yearning,
at the window of the night,
striving to hear a story that has no words.

-Beth Haynes Butler