I was walking home this evening, with the sky of dusk aglow,
And the shadows growing darker as I walked the streets below.
And walking in those shadows, a brightness caught my eye –
The glass upon the windows, reflecting lighted sky.
They shone like shields of soldiers, in the days when bronze was best,
And they stood in radiant order, reflecting to the west.
But looking at them burning, I saw there, in between
The lighted sky and darkness, a row of trees, serene.
They’d lost all trace of foliage, and stood there, naked, bare,
But clearly clad in beauty, like dancers nude and fair.
In silhouette I saw them, against the pastel glow,
With branches spreading skyward, as each was dancing slow.
And as I neared a dancer, I saw, against the sky,
As if in gay abandon, her tresses shaken high –
A tracery, a filigree, a net of twigs so fine,
That waited for the springtime, in silent arcs divine.
I paused and looked in wonder, and saw, on every twig,
The buds that were so tiny – and yet, with promise, big.
How patient were these dancers that moved with seasons slow…
How graceful were those arches, against the twilight glow…
I looked – and then I started to trundle, once again,
My burden that was heavy – but somehow lightened then.
And when I reached my burrow, I let the papers lie,
And wrote instead these verses – I know not surely why.