Wednesday, April 8, 2015
the dying of the light
When is the sunset?
Is it the moment the sun touches the hilltop and flares brightly for a moment,
as when you first kissed me
and I - weak in the knees -
had to hold you strong moments longer
until I could again stand on my own?
Or is it when the last ray dips behind the hill,
when the last email is sent and
I know there will be no reply;
when the last kiss is identified
only long after the fact?
Was it when I walked away still clinging to the last high rays pinking the clouds?
The light between one and another moment spans
And it's gone.
A realist would say the sun is both always rising and constantly setting.
A realist would say the sun moves on.
And so, I suppose, must I.
At long last light, so must I.