Steve Klepetar

Before Bed

Bleary-eyed at nine o’clock,
I struggle to stay awake,

book slipping from my hand
as I climb out of myself,

wander in moonless dark
toward the pond,

where a million frogs
break their throats in velvet air.

Steve Klepetar‘s three-year-old granddaughter looked out the big window at the back of his house and said “I love your view.”