A Poem: Evening

I think we feel it
before it comes.
The dying of the day.

It’s in the heat
dissipating,
almost imperceptibly.

The light lengthening,
to make long shadows
of ourselves.

The way everything feels
like it must be lived
before its lost,

and each word is weighed
hovering in the air,
as moths near a flame.

The way we lean both toward,
and away,
knowing we haven’t long

before the sinking sun,
in its wake
draws closed the shades.

But resisting,
we sit in the half dark
preferring the belief that light might last.

Until the cold sends us in,
the daylight’s memory
to keep us warm.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
August 2018

Artwork:  The master of light Bernie Fuchs,
whose artwork inspired this poem.