the light bled from the sky in colors-

because that was how the world 

expressed itself.

silhouetted against the twilight-

was a tree,

lone,

watchful,

gnarled,

yet still there,

though totally,

utterly,

alone.

darkness blankets

slowly-

yet fast-

you could not watch it, 

yet it falls thick-

tangible,

seeming hard to miss.

tiny winking lights

scatter the pitch sky

drawing unintentional pictures,

but

unintentional

is the most beautiful kind.

a luminous bloody circle

is suspended from an invisible wire-

hanging in entire contrast

from the black-

from the black, that envelopes and sucks everything away-

the mountains,

the light,

the hand in front of your face,

the warm person next to you.

the world does not again return the land-

until the first paints

color the sky,

pinks and reds and oranges-

and a fabulous array 

of everything in between,

everything to beautiful to put into a single word.

this day is not a cold one,

where it begins with blues and grays and black.

this day is ancient,

the first day

and the last.

and once again,

there is a silhouette against the horizon-

a tree,

lone, 

watchful, 

gnarled,

yet still there,

totally,

utterly,

alone.