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Posts Tagged ‘sunset’

If Ever You Slip From Up There

To know you are out there in another
sense, I think that if you ever peek down
you lean too far and slip over layered
cloud tops and hit every soft tuft until
a sliver of sunset sky captures you,
stretches you over the scene to look down
on us, spread out over the sea to where
light goes at end of day, or over
shadows around the peaks of ranges,
or tops of endless trees, a meeting place
just out of reach for us, stuck on the
earthly side of things.

I could burrow into a rocky gap on a coast
or mountainside, wait for light, hope
it’s you staying to warm the night.

Kyle McHale

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Wine by the St. Lawrence

One summer we had wine by
the St. Lawrence on Howe Island,
as wide as a river can be,
as old a story a river can have,
a thousand islands dot that section,
as open as our bottles
of delicious red and white
that woke us up, inside-out,
and our eyes could feast on
the crafted scene, outside-in,
the day glittered away, flowed westward,
chased the sun in its colored trail.

We were with someone who watched
fireflies emerge and dance
their glitter dance up to the tops of
dark trees for the first time,
who had seen her first chipmunk
earlier that afternoon.
I remember noticing my first fuchsia,
those pink-petaled-purple-bells,
my first British robin, the first time
I noticed bluebells in the woods,
the things we miss and know,
the things we take for granted,
subtle gifts in something new, some quiet joy.

A silent howl for Howe Island
gave way to a full moon
over black water, black land,
black trees, black sky,
the moon was everything then.

Through all the dark silhouettes
it shimmered, glittered, an oil-spill of light,
danced sideways across the river
like ice-angel-wings that you could glide over,
step delicately over, tiptoe over, onto,
holding your breath to not be seen,
up that stairway, through the gap,
silver water, white land,
bright beams, to the moon.

Kyle McHale        2014

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Christmas Eve

Enough sun is left hanging low to
turn one side of everything golden.
Depending on how you enter into the fading day,
your mood is decided by which part
of your body enters the light first.
Golden hands. Golden feet.
Golden heart. Golden mind.
Filtering that light the neighborhood,
sifting that horizon gleam, every house,
every chimney, every small branch on every tree,
seeping into things as it passes by until it hits you.

Gold-kissed flurries swirl around,
gentle wind swept snow clouds whip up
and look painted in the cold sky.
Wind enough to chill your breath and let it
wrap around to your opposite ear,
almost a whisper to yourself,
wind enough to sneak a snowflake into
your mouth to melt on the tip of your tongue,
freezing all other senses for a moment,
or maybe you ate a flake of gold that circulates your veins,
maybe those clouds have gold trim like one of
your childhood pillows had.
Maybe it was all there just for you.

Standing where you used to live, thankful.
How could you have ever moved away?
How could you ever live here again?
Which side of you must be golden?

One day in the future on this night,
you’ll sit in a chair with a good view of the room and the tree,
among certain things, everyone else asleep,
whiskey in hand,
perhaps a fire softly roaring if you’re lucky enough,
what will matter most on that day of all days?

Your thoughts will say, “I hope what’s golden is seen
by those for whom my love is truly meant.”

Kyle McHale                                2014

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