The hanging basket,
plumply pendant,
becomes a lantern
incandescent,
twinkling August’s
low-flung light
into votives
pink and white.
Summer’s aging
into fall;
twilight’s angle
cuts like awl
through maple leaf
and acorn’d ceiling
while insects call
their raspy reeling.
Child-tree
frail, lithe
bids the good-bye light
stay.
The grasses lend their wool
musty-hued
but night
and winter
will be.
Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
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.
Lingering
a reluctant sun
releases day
leaf by leaf
pensive
wondering
what night
is like.
On brittled page
shadows finger
winter’s braille
summoning day’s ghosts
in silent
bedtime tale.
Marigolds at twilight
border of hot coals
fevered daytime’s embers
garden’s molten shoals.
Twinned in marshy mirror
the day flies
flashing
apart
sic transit
in molten moment
twilight’s performance art.
More thanks 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.
