The sun sets across the meadow. Colors all around me saturate and mellow. Shadows turn the murky, distilled purple of the sky. The tall grasses turn to spun gold.
I absorb them. An osmosis thick and syrupy, until my heart vibrates a minor key. The witching hour is the feeling of realizing your children are getting older, of seeing the first fall crocuses, the end of what was bright and full. The end of everlasting. The diluted days of summer simmer down to sweet elixirs in our memory…far, far, fading into nothing.
The sugary pink and pond green mosaic of waves through the lily pads make me want to say pretty words and think delicious thoughts. To make something beautiful, to make it last and last and last and last.To patent it, to press it, to potion it, to put it in a frame. A perfume to keep.
But this ache is ephemeral, as all the best things are. And I am standing alone in the dark, in a field covered in lace orbs and starlit webs, bowing with the weight of their own reach.
And I bow, too.