this side of solstice

there is something about the light after five o'clock now

that
moves--transcends--transports
to some ancient mind-place of aquamarine-glossy-greenness
peeling from a hundred & seven year old hallway 

      smelling of cinnamon, shalimar and cherry pie.
this five o'clock twilight 

shimmers in wakefulness as toes skim carpet
lined by narratives of purpose 

and tomorrows
while from a window ice-mullioned
a single skeleton elm beckons .... thread-bare & still 
a butterscotch-honey connection 

on the corner of
11th and this cold new moon

wake me to this light always ...
wake me to winter's slumbered quest to gaze out the
frosty windows to the ice highways of the plains where river valleys sing of loneliness
sing to me of soul laid hollowed and milk-yellowed 

to the lily-green of spring
this light …