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.