It rolls across the land; a tide exhaled
Of soulful blue, hue feeds on deeper hue
Until the fond familiar is veiled
Where folk-at-home windows, pale and wide-eyed
Stare to a world of supper-hour dark
A bivouac of muffled countryside
The scuttle of a brittle leaf is stirred
And chased across the street by phantom feet
Somewhere the barking of a dog is heard
As hooded strangers brace against the chill
With zippers zipped and buttons buttoned tight
Hastening to home’s peace-on-earth good-will
Where day is done before our chores, it seems
And images of easy chairs and books
Become the heroes of our twilight dreams
The heaven shakes its timbrel, spilling stars
Like sparkling eighth-notes gone wildly awry
Deflected from the freeway lined with cars
…and all along the corridor of trees
Bereft of vesper-song the dark reclines
And drips from limbs pining for giggling leaves
The bantering of breezes drops; how still
And smooth the hour slips from day to night
Tucking from sight the near and friendly hill
Now autumn has begun its swan-song trek
Toward that quiet place of white on white
We watch her walking backwards, a mere speck
Yet valiant, she musters a gallant fight
…before his huff and puff snuffs her from sight
© Janet Martin
Until last night I would watch the evening climb the hill out back
now it is dark at suppertime; the window clothed in black
I guess I'll crank up some music while I do supper-dishes 'cause there's nothing to stare at in the window except...me! yikes;-(
