In the time of two breaths
there’s the twilight sweet spot
when everything hovers
between color and not.
White becomes silver
as shadows unfurl,
or maybe it’s pewter
or mother-of-pearl;
reds turn to velvet
with lavender nap,
blues, cupric sulfate,
with diamond wrap.
Yellows to brass
with gold overlays,
burnished in hot coal,
smoldering blaze.
And a palette is born
each day at its end
that no words can capture
but only pretend.
Evening white
kin to the moon
snowy ember
Delphic rune.
The day closes in layers —
palimpsest first
awaiting tomorrow’s script
inscribed by sandal and toe —
next water, rocking itself
in heavy-lidded blues,
slowing, nodding —
then birds, pulling cloud blanket
tucking in
a yawning world
dimming voices
on edge of dream —
atop, where wisps of day
linger like talcum
a so-distant moon
calls the stars.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
Noble fellows
from day adjourned
comfy socks
in rest well earned.
Our wordless thanks
from heartfelt throe:
the bedtime sigh
and wiggle of toe.
With more thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
On brittled page
shadows finger
winter’s braille
summoning day’s ghosts
in silent
bedtime tale.
The air was still
no finch’s trill
no breeze, no voice, no chirp
and so I know
as sun sank low
I heard a tiny burp.
In tufts and wisps
the evening air
undulates
like rocking chair.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Gathering its lavender
pinning it with gold
autumn day retires
iridescently furloughed.
Thanks more to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Between the dark and the daylight —
not Longfellow’s evening pause —
comes the afterglow of daybright
September’s twilight bows.
Undulant gentle autumn air,
rocking-chair safe, home-cozy,
whispers bugs out from somewhere
to play their ring-around-rosy.
Oddments 