DUSK

The twilight settles in a dusky blue breath. 

Sparrow flits outside my window, making a home 

with leaves and twigs and threads of deepening sunlight, 

golden threads that she wriggles from the sky 

with her lone song. I, too, am burrowing 

a nest from the threads of the world, 

knitting sadness with the soft clover palms 

of my hands: sweet, warm, and lonely. 

In the hallway, my neighbor’s keys clink 

as she turns the corner of the staircase, 

and she’s singing today, a lilting melody 

that sounds like slanting sunlight, 

her voice like a sparrow. Also: 

the sycamore tree dropped its yellow leaves 

yesterday, revealing veiny gray limbs 

that seem to reach towards the blue night 

like old arms. These are the threads 

that I weave into my heart: this, 

the lonely song, the deepening light, 

the ribbed parabolas of trees, the silent snow, 

the cricket, the static and the whispering flame. 

These are all there is.