There’s a time before the nightfall,
when the heavens still are lit
and the western sky is glowing,
as the east is growing dark—
when the wind is but a whisper,
as it ruffles trees and dies,
but the crickets call in chorus,
as they clamor and subside.
That’s the time that we are silent,
as we listen and we watch,
as we turn and travel homeward,
reflecting on our days—
the day that’s just departing
and those that long have left,
as the sunset turns to gloaming—
and from work we turn to rest.
The greens of trees will darken—
and soon they’ll near to black,
and we’ll see them silhouetted
against the glowing sky—
with the lace of treetop leaflets
waving in the breeze—
and we’ll pause perhaps to watch this—
and breathe perhaps our sighs.
The household cats will waken,
as their ancient instincts call.
and we’ll see the wary felines,
as they’re stalking through the dark.
Then our instincts too will prickle,
and we'll pause to draw a breath.
Through the eons, we have traveled—
and the dusk, we’ve daily met.
|View from Lighthouse Landing, Grand Rivers, Kentucky|
by Sherry Boulton
And so even in the city
we can meet with dawn and dusk
and be moved by scents of morning
and by evening’s drifting musk.
These are times when we transition,
and we sense the flow of time—
that might yet appear suspended,
as the stars begin to shine.
The twilight is the lovers’ time—
and time for those rejected
to feel anew the hurt they felt,
as daylight ebbs to dark.
The dusk is full of memory—
with ghosts of long ago.
We then recall those visions
that the sun had chased away.
So every grief forgotten
and every sorrow learned
by us and those before us—
and those who’re still unborn,
we might perceive at nightfall,
for we lower then our guards.
And yet the dusk is healing,
as it enters in our hearts.
For every dusk is dying,
and death awaits us all—
and death is liberation—
like autumn’s leaves, we fall.
It takes away our worries,
our sorrows and our grief.
So dusk and death are fellows—
for both are best of thieves.
2015 August 18th, Tue. 8:39 pm
on the steps of a house, facing west
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York