Tucked Between

Day emerges unhurried as a babe
while earth labors to turn.
I closely watch but cannot see
the changes as they happen,
the weighty black curtain dispersing
too slowly to decipher
just when it is, that color comes.
Yet bearing witness
stops all thought,
and speech except for exclamation.
Dawning pours me out
into a fresh day’s world as if
I myself am newborn.

Later this day of light, I witness
its stately, unalterable retreat.
Sunset’s the drama, but dusk
tugs at the impermanent heart,
and plucks the chords of fare-thee-well
in colors I cannot name, yet seize
and press to my breast!
But my clinging can’t in any way
prolong the dying of the day.
When earth revolves away
from our own beloved star,
the end brings rest
and loss. I practice
perceiving like a child
receiving twilight with widened eyes,
letting pink clouds lapse
into lavender stallions
whose slow-motion flight
never minds if it arrives.

Twilight’s show so delicate,
elusive. How did I miss
the whole dome switch to tints of lilac?
In the jacaranda tree,
a quartet of winged ones
sings hearty gratitude—
until in sudden silence
they sail away.
Bells from the church peal eight
with graceful grieving agreement.
In a hundred hues of charcoal,
night draws up her eiderdown,
slow as a blossom closing.
I stare but cannot catch it happen.

Another day brimming
with breath and miracles,
is kissed within the pages,
between the covers
of the light and of the dark.
One more curious installment
in my singular story
is kindly tucked between
the birth of dawn and lullaby of dusk.
The coming and going of sunlight
encloses me, again, with love.

©Susa Silvermarie 2019