A poem that may or may not make it into the Mill Creek/North Wind Manor collection…it’s definitely not finished yet, but I had to share the sunset.

The sunset has bled into the trees.
Molten gold and fire, syphoned
from the clouds into the leaves, it sieves them
grey. It drains away and leaves them
stark as canvas—bleeds
out in the night, and when we wake
we find it white, and all its life-blood hanging, like
frozen color shattered, dangling
and clinking from dark branches
in the breeze. Watch
how the sun hits from behind. If not
perfection, it will always find its way
to achieve reflection.