comes that late exhale of day
which marks the sun’s ritual loss.
effusions tint the Earth fiery
even as she shuns the sky dome’s
paling.
trees reach from intent shadow,
audacious as wicker calyxes,
entrancing the scleral moon.
in conjugal aeries, wind-combed
clouds
march in rolling dresses,
or equally drawn-out suits.
if, now, a winter rabbit
ghosted from a pod of shorn birch,
with fur so wise it married
a humble snowdrift,
who would see?
Chris Crittenden, Maine, USA
