implications of a midmorning sunset
violets are alone,
though they grow in clusters,
unbidden in meadows,
unmatched in their loveliness.
loosely, but surely, the breeze
tugs them westward.
the morning warmth recedes,
calling on the evening much too soon,
leaving dew,
draining color,
stitching mournful quilts of shade.
this premature and tender darkness is a prayer
spoken by someone who’s had you on his mind.