First Post! (and a poem)

I’m having some trouble “breaking the seal,” as it were, so for my first post I’m going to share a poem I originally wrote 5+ years ago for a creative writing project in undergrad. I present it today with some edits and changes to reflect my current perspectives and level of writing.

Nocturne #4
If it were possible, my life would be
Framed by a flaming sky:
I would awaken on time to see the sun
Suspended in its vanishing descent,
Caught in a glory of gold, pink, blue,
Swathed in clouds composed of hues
Too elegant to name with
Single words, short and deficient—
  The ents are right: as with “hill,”
   So with this.

I would spend my mornings
Roaming across the land in the
Fading grey light of gloaming,
Sipping tea as the stars wink awake—
Steam rising into cooling air of cricket song as
I, too, blink bleary eyes open, wide.

And then I would lie outside on the soft grass
  —daytime’s emerald strung with dewdrops—
Stare up, down, sideways, perhaps, into that
Spreading canvas of outer space,
Not a blank canvas but
A universe of galaxies glinting back at me, so distant and yet
Every night I would reach out,
Brush my hands across the sky,
Riffle the silver freckles, gather up
Dust and diamonds in my hands, let the
Ink of night seep between my fingers,
Slide down along the blue veins of my wrist.

Owls would peer down from trees,
Cooing softly before taking silent flight, and
Nighthawks would dive and make their
Endearing, electric calls above me.
Bats skitter through the air,
   Foxes rustle brushes (or is that a breeze),

      Click beetles and frogs and fauns—

And I would not tremble at the
Glint of eyes in the darkness.
I would not tremble at the
Glint of eyes wide and watching and
Curious, sensing a kinship.

And in my dark days lit by soft silver,
I would read books, write tomes,
Dance with bare feet and sing at the moon
Until the hesitant appearance of
Shy grey light peers over the horizon, asks the 
Beads of dew strung on grass, asks the
Spiders spinning white webs, asks the
Owls ruffling feathers in their tree hollow
If it is yet—must it be?—time
For the sun’s searing gold to rise.

I would nod my head, whisper (along with
The rest of the night) a blessing, a gratitude, and
Slip back inside, snuggle deep into the
Warmth of my bed,
Sleeping until my patch of earth again revolves away
From our exploding star.