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There are times
when all glory is dead,
when magnificence sits shriveled in the corner
whimpering sad laments,
when Would Be
and Could Be
and Should Be
disappear suddenly into the great Are Not,
and I am left all alone
with just plain me.
It's like evening
when the brilliant sunset loses its shine,
when all color drains out of the sky
leaving the sky gray,
the trees gray,
the birds gray,
the soul a pile of ashes
caught again by surprise,
unprepared.
Everyone loves a good sunset.
But with you I can sit still
and let my gray evening eyes
meander slowly home.
My most self-loving voice
speaks from your face
standing gently in the doorway:
Come in from the cold evening,
it's time to be home.
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