It’s twilight,
send the motes
of dust to glow
in the faltering
beams of light.
Smiles meet.
Across the room,
we mutually know,
that, in the setting,
Old Sun cracks his knuckles,
and, upon the strings,
his bow is drawn.
It plays against
the chords of dawn
and lights the notes,
of which,
darkness is composed.
Smile again,
wall-to-wall,
as the morning children
right the wrongs
of this dawn-to-dusk
twilight song.
©️ Obol, 2020.
