At the Ending of the Day

In the purple deckled shadows of November’s gauzy haze,
when light turns pima cotton at the ending of the day,
memories from long ago have a sure and gentle way
to stoke a dying ember into a steady glowing ray.

The seasons past, as now recalled, know little of regret,
for though the footsteps faltered, the path was surely set
by a strong and mighty hand and a thorn-strung coronet
that forgave our every stumble without counting up the debt.

Oh sure, it is the twilight that invites such reverie,
for we too often weave our dreams with a fragile stitchery,
Sometimes the breeze is all it takes to come and set them free,
and sometimes that is all it takes to make them fall to thievery.

Even after darkest hours when unsure steps would stray,
there is a peace that brings us rest as shadows softly play.
This precious time, like whispered rhyme that doubts do not betray,
is the treasure that we garner at the ending of the day.

11 thoughts on “At the Ending of the Day

  1. “[T]he path was surely set / by a strong and mighty hand and a thorn-strung coronet.” That truth is the only reason I can get up in the morning. Thanks for saying it so well.

    1. Eric,

      My thanks to you, for the visit and for your ongoing support.

      “That truth is the only reason I can get up in the morning.”
      Yes!!
      What a dismal existence it would be without His forgiveness.

      sarah

  2. jantanleo

    Sarah,

    I’ve read this twice just now. Beautiful poetry beautifully fashioned. Thank you for sharing this gem in November when leaves flag our season with gold. And your poem, as treasure, settles in the heart . Happy Thanksgiving, my dear friend. May peace surround us . May we notice its grandeur. I love your poem.

    Jan

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