In the Blue Hour

Night stillness and its waning moon.

Morning brightens only slightly and her trees stand self-assured. Autumn stretches to a lenient silence. The golden stubble of leftover maize waits in sodden fields, making for a rough kiss. Seeds to legacy to harvest. Repeat.

Watching Lex conduct the jazz band left me teary. Her complete immersion in the journey of the music is stunning. And I wonder, is it too late for me? This lyrical path to ascension! This flame to our papery earth.

Images weather away to uncover vast swaths of the cosmos. Dead relatives give the message: there is no distance. Still, I wonder where certain poets will be buried and if they welcome starshine and moonlight as cloaks.

Its soup season! The secrets of my heart are not hidden from the one whose very existence is a key: a bowl of soup waiting on the table, a chapter read to me as I doze, a walk hand-in-hand beneath trembling trees.

The bejeweled gifts of eternity are never not given and so, to consider secrets (and their discernment) is beside the point. And yet, and yet. Please forgive me as I linger in such a sweet spot from time to time. Let us meet in the blue hour in the by-and-by.