In every sunset, we die a little,
know this but hold it at arm's length.
We're in awe of fleeting hues tossed
like marbles strewn along parched earth.
Seagulls soar out of reach and taunt,
crisscross horizon and surf.
Ephemeral clouds amaze
with inimitable pink tinges.
Light fingers brush without
touching, grace before failing.
We sigh and take a seat
as the glow slowly fades.
The dragon glade pries spaces, roils
tangled vines like swishing tails, lost flame
lips, while her necklace of lilies
defies lengths of sighs falling
to depths through his eyes. No pure shapes
hug anymore: angles and edges, high winds
lick grass blades. Nothing is left, dried leaves
grin underfoot, ivy twines a loam death,
links each second to mine missing beats
of a stone heart's labyrinth as root veins
rasp her coffin. Now he seeks one
last glimpse of their first night together
pressed into rilled sheets of granite,
but knows carved keys won't unite them
until red lichen turns a cagey eye
south toward the crest of lost storms.
Bio: Theresa A. Cancro (Wilmington, Delaware, USA) writes poetry and short fiction. Her poems have been published internationally in both online and print journals.
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