One evening the sun set with rotund orange,
And orange such that will form only with a setting sun,
Deep and smooth, fiery and fire-like.
A sun-made plastic orange.
And to turn and see on the other side of their sea,
The moon so white and glossy, and salt-white,
With pockmarks and not a shred of finesse,
But set out like no man’s creation,
Softly gaining in strength, with embossed edges of silver light,
It floated not far from the arm, but closer to the head.
Being orange with such quality, the gray crept into the sides of the sun,
Slowly tugging at it, to hide beneath what was one’s world, and away!
Away, below our world, below what one will see.
Glancing one last time at the subjects of it’s immortal glory,
Surrendering us to the craft of the night,
And the gloss of the moon.
To ask, “What do you see in the setting sun?”
And to hear the quiet pause such as in a forgotten line,
With small gasps of nervous hesitation,
And the small hands grabbing at the edges of our shirts.
Listen to the quiet sounds of thought, as their nervous fingers,
Do nothing but twist.
To pace gently, softly rolling your heel on the ground,
To not appear more nervous than them,
Wait for thirty years or more, and wait for leaves to fall,
And the call of the regular bird to end.
And finally hear, like the quiet whisper of mouse feet,
A voice say, “orange.”
Standing beneath the still eucalyptus,
Watching nothing move, but the stillness of the limp leaves.
The fading sky beneath resting its tired eyes, closing them gently.
Gently enough to let the tree watch the changing light
And to form its own conclusions on the nature of night.
Leaves stir a little, like the anticipatory fingers of a pianist.
The beetle climbs slowly, after its nap, to the highest point,
On the mound of sand at the base of the tree.
Yet it cannot see what breathes in it.
Oblivious to all but conscious of the expanding dark.