Day sheds its sheath of light,
the skin of things a wisp,
a wreath, every blade clinging
to the flare once pulsing within.
As shadows climb the hill,
the heavens spin anew.
Caught in their swivel,
a luminous planet or two.
Below thrive thistle, laurel, sage,
manzanita, sumac and rue.
Breeze brushes their gilded
shafts. The dessicated bristles
of their involuted bracts
leave audible scratches
on the silken shroud
of evening’s amber whisper.
***
Even I didn’t realize what this poem was about until I had to read it over a few times to proof it. In The Skin of Things. This is, it has turned out, the title poem of that sequence.