Now it is dark at last
Twilight time for the forsaken wanderer;
The junipers are a backdropp for some evening smells;
That take on a meaning of their own,
One of wisdom, one of experience-
For they have held sway in all weather and time;
They are not graven idols,
Or burnt offerings-
They live as my life goes on,
Tirelessly showing me that
Not-going at times gets one farther than the quickness of light itself.
In time at night they act like the old humps they are,
Talking about seeding the clouds,
And they are most familiar with all the cloud-types,
The Romulus and the Remus
They speak of weather like men speak of food,
Natural goodness abounding,
Hungering for more weather to brave,
Like eating hot peppers,
The brazen fruit of the desert,
The quickening pulse of the thunder.
I will always seek latitude with the trees,
Even protection from the storming men
Who have always sought my hide
With guns and binoculars
That cannot ever penetrate these trees.
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Comments about this poem (Night Falling by Stan Petrovich )
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