Evening Poem, February 2, 2017



The evening wind rushes up the side of the ravine

And whips through the line of Yew and Hickory at the edge of the ridge

The sleeping trees there are bent and cold


Below, the houses – red brick and white frame

Keep the neat lines made by carpenters and masons long ago

And the ancient oaks and sycamores in the old lawns

Stretch their arms skyward, above the new shadows

And into the bright bath of the day’s last light

As if ecstatic.


In only moments

The sun will drown below the mountain to the west

And light will splinter into violet and gold above that far ridge.

Copyright 2017

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