QUIET FOLDS

Late clouds sighed deeply under a

the hands of a yellow sun,

as day pressed forward to dusk, clearing the table

for night and its curtains of dark to silently descend.

 

Breezes dance without concern between

arms of crooked branches.

A silver moon opens on meadows,

shedding release to paths now open.

 

A balance of warm and cool air hovers

above the dew and sleeping insects.

 

Night is the tree without fruit, like a home

cleared of voices.

 

Dawn arrives, chasing out evening shadows.

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