The older sun in evening doesn't glow for long.
What briefest moments that we might have had to warm ourselves,
awash in the beauteous dull orange glow,
or to chance to hear a solar wind if it should blow
by Earth and penetrate the atmosphere
and sing a breathy song befitting to a greater sphere—
if they were ever more than a light
and instant brush against another, stranger
phenomenon—
can only be remembered now, since now they all have gone.
Perhaps the sun is glowing elsewhere, much more bright,
at least now, if it hasn't always;
there are distant flashes reflected in the sea.
But, as the gloaming darkens, we can consider:
much as nature moves the bodies in ellipses on their planes,
it's natural that we should be
in darkness.
I think it's time to disappear
maybe, for a little while.
The winds are blowing stronger air,
like the winds that blew a year
ago or so, a stormy day
in spring to complement the fair
days in between.
The white light in the darkened gray
above was beckoning somehow,
shining luminance and ala-
baster, argent, veins of pink
and silver, streaks of sheen.
It's hard to keep my eyes on you;
the trees are waving in the wind.
All the leaves and fronds and blades
are whipping like my hair, the green
and brown and flowers flying, mixing
in the air and flowing on the
concrete slabs, filling every
gutter, every trough.
With the stormy weather I blew
in, a day like this, so it
is only fitting that a day
like this should see me blow away.
It's also somehow fitting you,
of all the people here, should be
the one to see me off.
If a little while never
culminates in my return—
and really it most likely never
will—
maybe we will see
each other in another storm,
somewhere else, away from here,
on another stormy day.