When viewing this scene, I thought of how that
magical moment, near the end of day,
can spin light and scenery into random impressions.
It's time spinning raw air into the fabric of ideas,
stories that evolve from wondering about the woman
who sweeps snow and matchsticks that lit Christmas
candles from her porch, the sound of a train, or the
narrow distance that tumbles down the woods and calls
you to follow its path uphill, up and beyond tomrrow.
And there is that sense of enchantment dissolving in
the rose and salmon colored horizon, a trace of
Sleeping Beauty pricking her finger and falling asleep
for a certain period of time. Only in this poem, the
sleep is a pause, seconds of personal reflection that
take us out of the day's routine and allow us to see
what is there and then imagine other possibilities.
© 2011, Wendy Howe.