Witching hour

by Susan S. Keiser

The pins drop
at regular intervals
in this hollow house;

it's last call for travelers,

glass slipper memories
of mist-shrouded passage.

In silence you hear them,
ideas that pace
the corridors of night,
self-mobilized thoughts,
each anxious to adhere to

a dream,
any dream,

and a hope that it will last
the night.