I’m not sure what they call
the portion of evening
in which the sky lightens,
just before night’s closing curtain,
the sun now set
but not quite withdrawn
from its illuminated backdrop,
a soft blue eiderdown, shaken
so that the stars fall out,
one by glorious one.
I am not sure what they call the day,
moisture laden,
which gives in to a freshly rinsed evening,
and gathering itself,
reflects the body after a shower,
scrubbed and glowing.
I’m not sure, but I know
how to find my way home in the quiet dark
by the light of a planet rising.
In that,
even though the bush
merges into shadow
and the pavement slopes, undefined,
looking up I can see
over hills and tree tops,
where Venus glitters,
a shining beacon,
a torch to light the path,
a gemstone catching the light,
a reflection
of a thousand sunlit oceans
on the other side of heaven’s arc.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
June 2023
Living Tree Poetry 