Sunset from a Field
Here I sit in a field of flowers.
The rain has stopped for now.
Dark and puffy clouds surround,
Nothing but blue above me.
The blossoms of late summer are subtle.
Heat wilts the gaudy blooms of spring;
The hardiest survive:
Queen Anne's lace, chicory, thistles.
Gray bulkheads drift across the sky.
A gilded herd floats off into the west.
Follows the sun in its quest for horizon,
Gathers at the rim, as gold turns to pink.
Wind at their heels blows them on.
The golden moment has passed.
Soon it will be night—
Shining gold to gleaming silver.
One brilliant cloud emerges from the mass.
Crimson-edged pillar, last stand of the sun.
But it drifts on like all the rest—
Ephemeral as an unacknowledged thought.
The last rays fall upon the highest layer,
Cirrus, farthest from earthly soil.
Their altitude awards them this last blessing:
To burn when all the rest is ashes.
Flowers turn inward to endure the night.
The herd is gone! scattered wisps divide the sky
The sun is gone! now all must fade away
Fade away, to blue and black and gray.