I’m working on a new project, involving memorized poetry. I wondered if I had any of my own memorized—not many, in fact, but this one floats back to me in those quiet, not-entirely-contented moments.

Fear of Missing Out

Night on the porch. Real darkness.
The rain tries out some rhythms 
then shakes its head: "Take five!"
The frogs advertise in the fields for all they are worth.

I'm not doing much. Vacation.
There's a blanket, a chair, 
the vague dark breath of the sea.
I want to be composing, too: what's my worth?

Crack the delicate nest of night with porchlight.
You have to break some eggs, et cetera. 

When I'm writing, or reading, or working in my apartment,
what I'll want is to sit in the dark and sing back to these frogs.

Originally published in Cascadia Rising Review. Thank you, friends.