Dusk

| December 17, 2009

Wind, calm, rain of needles shaken

from the firs -- everything at last

 

touches dirt. Night falls

first from your eyes, straining

 

in diminishing light

to see bats spilling from eaves,

 

silhouettes of jays, the fleeting owl,

a cheekbone, a ridge of brow

 

the face of earth

that still loves you.

 

 

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