This Is Not a Poem

There Are No Words For Sunset

Ruby red grapefruit iced with sugar, the orange sheet
left to dry on the line, torn by the wind.
Candlelight on white china, the light underwater,
pebbles, the first days you lived alone.
The white flesh of a crisp apple, Paris,
sunlight on your closed eyelids, new snow,
cocktails on the porch in the evening, with a man who
wears the wrong shoes. Mint julep, melancholy.
Wind singing through the gaps in the barn’s north wall,
what you gave away. Hibiscus tea steaming in the cold,
persimmon. Something beautiful you made yourself.
Waking up well after long illness, fresh hay, merry-go-round.
Floating in a warm lake, falling asleep.
Lifting your eyes to meet someone else’s gaze,

evanescence.