you live to the south
waking in winter you see the sun before me
evenings I climb the highest hill
to hold it in my eyes a little longer
until suddenly like hope it slides away
sunset
the sunrise
the sunset is its promise;
the sunrise is its coming true

Wind-kicked leaves
Wind-kicked leaves, red and golden, drift slowly down to autumn bed. The sinking sun touches horizon trees, is laced with branches and leaves us, leaves us a fire-shot sky of evening.
The houses call us – no, not the houses, home, the shelter. Hand in hand, our backs to the dying in the distance, we fade away to deeper darkness.