So short they tease me cruelly with their far too brief full dark.

When I can’t sleep,

then the cheerfulness of eager birdsong announcing dawn’s imminent arrival

feels not just unpleasant, but an act of torture.

I rub at my dry eyes, which are beginning to sting from the lack of proper rest,

already longing for the rich and full nights of winter.

The cold of those nights doesn’t bother me, unlike the muggy dark summer brings.

Another torture. More useless tossing and turning.

So many write in throes of ecstasy about the beauty of such nights,

but for me they are a cruel cheat.

Even when I do close my eyes long enough for a dream to find me,

too often they turn into nightmares.