Arts + Scene » Poetry

The Coming Night



On the north coast of California
The wind is blowing strong
The coming night is cold

Starry liquid light illuminates the ground
Clouds blow about an expanse of sky
That is moving slow
But sure, above the place
We occupy

Today, this morning
I looked out from my man-made perch
A second story bedroom
Seeing out onto the
World of winter

There was a small Douglas fir
Felled by the strong night-time winds
Falling long across the
Green tree-filled gully
Behind the house

A quiet excuse for
A contemplation
Of the inexactitude
Of the moments of ending
Of the perpetuity of chaos

Of beauty made long
Made Into the white of bark
The green of leaves, being these

That are left into the void
Of unexplainable silence
And stasis

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