My Witching Hour by Joan Currie

At three, my eyes open to the soft night’s call,
A distant train’s echo, faint engines drone,
Murmur of creatures, house timbers groan,
And I’m caught in a web spun silent and small.

Yet once woken, the night takes me far-
To warm tropic waters, to sunlit sands,
To brushstroke dreams with my eager hands,
Where crimson red and blue glow like a star.

I drift in dances on shores unknown,
Beneath heavens that pierce the shadowed dome,
And revel with loved ones near the old home,
By the lake where moonlight and memories are sewn.

Then the hour fades; I’m lulled once more,
Into soft slumber’s waiting door,
Wrapped in the hush of dreams restored.

At three o’clock in the morning, I resist the temptation to turn on the light to read or sew. Rather, I lie very still and the hour overcomes me in the sweetest, best possible way.

The feeling from the song in Only Murders in the Building, performed by Meryl Streep, is aligned with how I feel during that magical hour.