Not Quite Sleeping

As I sit here not quite sleeping, in the comfort of my chair,

while the fire’s warmth is keeping wintry drafts out of the air,

both my eyes are slowly blinking and their surface starts to glaze;

Slowly I feel my chin sinking, here before the crackling blaze.

Lo, the moonlight’s stealthy creeping ’cross the window’s icy stare

as I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair.

In my mind’s eye daydreams dawning as the room begins to blur.

Gritty eyes and languid yawning; my surrender seems assured.

Bands of flick’ring firelight throwing spectral shadows on the wall,

heavy drowsiness keeps growing, though I’m trying not to fall.

As I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair,

swirled thoughts like hounds are leaping, chasing an elusive hare.

Neither wide awake nor snoozing, silent lullabies float by

consciousness I’m gradually losing; breathing stretches into sighs

quiet minutes by me sweeping. Honestly, I just don’t care

as I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair.

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This form, the quatern, is an old French form that still lends itself well to small stories, using the strength of that cascading refrained line. Most quaterns are written using 8 sylllables without rhymes, but this one does rhyme in [a a b b] format, and was written in a little used meter. tertius paeonic tetrameter, catalectic.