Sunset light swirls through the wind,
smells of waning days, the start of sleeping warm.
Light eddies and tumbles in little whirlpools,
dances the future of leaves, the drain of hours
of gold. Winter waits to reel, foxtrot, polka with emptiness
and snow. We sit and watch, peculiarly indifferent, idle,
indulgent with months of summer; hours creep away now,
carry empty buckets filled with sunlight,
stray by us unannounced, unmourned.

Time is the sky.
Open and yawning with blue stretch from insouicant, to ethereal
and celestine.
Time is the stretch of day between poles of night, the arch
of golden sun
set above a colonnade of clouds kiting with light.
We watch night stretch
and shrink the day thin. The sun dies slowly, agonizingly,
which we ignore;
we talk loudly in the garden to cover the embarrassing creep of darkness
into our chatter;
the fading cast of sunset, the beams a little lower in the sky;
surely the roof
is sagging,
not falling in.

Heaven fires patina, enamel, stretches out to the truth of time and space.
Insignificant specks, we bask in eternal light we do not comprehend —
the ceremony of its passing, the dance, the soluble point, the tincture
we call the horizon, another shadow in the parade of shades. We complain
we will soon have to move our lawn chairs into the garage, garden shed.
We ignore another opportunity to contemplate the infinite.
The future will be cold. We are secure in our knowledge of that.