the hours dim
and the light is gone;
a brilliance lost for another day.
tomorrow,
maybe some white butterfly
might cross my path,
glittering perhaps.
but time has passed the warmth;
the chill of the end-season
set in.
i have another
morrow—
not the one after to
day, you understand,
an older one,
brighter than any
i have yet known,
it shall be still
when it arrives;
luminous as the dawn
of that very First day
when some star burned white
over that mid-east town
and all the earth slowed
and paused
and stopped
and was
at peace.
