You are not morning.
You are late afternoon. And that's why
beings love you.
You are the warmth of a thing past its peak,
the growing fuzz of possibilities for transformation
from the light's late gaze into something
You are a meadow caught by a sudden
dazzle of solar photons, lazy
You don't hold promises,
or negotiate means of keeping them.
You are the scuppered sound of a rower's oars
kissing the tops of the waves
as they recede.
You are the gentle gleam
on the belly of the plane
as it hums by.
You are not night. Your warmth may last
long into darkness, but you are not that mystery.
You are not the hard-baked glory of noon.
You are the late gold miners chased
but never found in solid form.
You are the late afternoon.
And that's why we love you.
"Being menial, how do we let vastnesses strike through
Our fastened nerves, or see -- being the ordered smallesses
We are -- the whole spill, squeeze and boiling without
Losing heart, mind, or being
Insinuated -- hugged or struck into the unwanted
Northless utmosts, the Southless balconies between
Gables of dust, rotundas of sun? Can it be our comfort's
Derived from our dumbness?"
from "The Fractal Lanes" by Alice Fulton
Always thanks to Wesley Holmes, Erin O'Conner-Drew, Jeremey Linden, Kadeejah Streets, Jenö, Lee Burridge, Brother Michael and the playa.