TWILIGHT'S CAST
The day lets go, a slow, deep breath,
and spills its molten gold across the lake.
Each ripple breathes the light, a silent death
of harsh demands, for gentle quiet's sake.
A solitary form, a patient grace,
within the narrow hull, a man of peace,
his line a whisper, seeking hidden space
where silent dwellers find their brief release.
The trees stand hushed, a dark, protective band,
against the fading blush of western sky.
This moment held, a promise in his hand,
as stars begin to prickle, soft and high.
No catch, no matter, in this hallowed hour,
just calm reflection, born of evening's power.
Thanks to GOOGLE GEMINI for the poem.
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