This is the morning of the long shadow,

the prelude to high noon, the evening of the banshee,

the dulcet pour of tears.

Around and ‘round, and when it’s dawn,

does the spirit rise?

The rain-trodden smile of Hope

peeks above her upturned collar,

below crinkled eyes along the crooked path,

searches for home, a quest for the hearth,

an urn for the soul…a table for two.

A one-way journey to an earlier moment,

and the one before that, the cascade of regret;

a sweater held up to the face, an inhale,

a longing.

How many pins can you stab

in the heart of a dancing angel?

See the cherubim flail on the lance,

run through when the light is lost,

when the end-day sirens blow,

and time runs down on slow dancers.

This is the melody of the canopy: the brush and bristle

of leaves and the wind’s whistles. I am enthralled

by the vigor of the spry zephyrs found here,

the overhead murmur of starlings. I dance a jig

on the head of a pine, atop its thistles.

From this vantage, silly and giddy,

I see all of creation.

At last, something to have died for.