Yearning For The Dusk Poem by David Taylor

Crinkling, blinking,
dancing, slowly.
Like not ever ending,
charming, scented
glowing, but not burning.
Wisps of smoke
with tastes of chardness.
Ever so softly lighting
Not even
slightly frightening.
Always so very,
so inviting.
Hot but only
barely warming.
Ohh how we all
so like watching
embers when they’re
slowly turning
into whitened
ashened dust.
Somehow yearning
in their turning
for the ending dusk.