The day is weary,
but the light,
has so much left to give.
It flickers through the forming shadows,
spills out of the clouds like warm honey
melting from the sky.
I want to catch every last drop,
sticky on my skin.
Night air moving in, hairs stand on end--
a pull from the magic in the evening’s exhale?
Pink fades to purple
sewn together with golden thread.
The light quietly slips from the sky
To rise again,
so will I.