There are days
that don’t want to leave us.

As evening comes in, they
put on their finery:
cloaks of gold
and amber
and copper
and rose
edged with flames
of aureate, ever-burnishing orange.

Elements that last lifetimes, aeons.

Then, dressed for departure,
they linger on the threshold,
languid, dazzling, fine,

like they do, indeed, have forever
tucked away in their pockets and folds.

Though we both know
they’re on their way
they hold us as long as they can
then kiss us goodbye
with the whisper that though they must go
they don’t have to be forgotten.

For me, a poem is a key, unlocking a moment in time and revealing the creative depths that every moment holds. Poetry brings us to creative presence.

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