Sometimes
When the Light
the
golden light of evening
gilds
the tops of trees
and
pulls the softest brown from
the
sedge grass
above
it all a harvest moon
alone
abides, except for me
while
evening dies
and
cicadas’ dirge
draws
out the stars
who
weep not for the passing day
the
darkening trees root night to earth
which
bends to seal itself to the horizon
I
sit pasted into place
drawn
dream-like
to
stare into the depths of space
between
the black and blue of sky
amid the fragrant withered grass of summer
