kavaliere

Evening Incantation

Call it the sudden change in the air,

the white line of the horizon

that pushes you out the front screen door,

out, lips parted for this something, hovering

as the tree’s silhouette, speaking: find

what contracts behind your eyes out here.

Just as the sun turns down its bright glaze

trails its glow as a waning dream, so have these hours

left you moving through rising grains of adumbration.

Call it the star, disappearing under your gaze –

fixing your grasp melts it only faster away.

So call it the dry zephyr, how it sounds the high leaves,

prepares us for an echoed current in the underbrush,

blooming what is lost to the apparent noon.

Call it the exhale and closing of the sky,

the wafting half-tones of the leaves.

Call it back.

Its parting mourns the shadows.