Eastward from Sunset ALLAN BRIESMASTER
Again the late light fading while it glides up treetrunks onto taller branches: there brightening somehow, strangely, at that remnant height, a slow flow of dark-gold into rich orange, reddening, tenuous … It blooms, or ripens as the slenderest of final fruits of sun on earth, soon lofted at reliquary streaks in eastern sky to soar beyond thought over the greyblue wall that shows us our globe’s rising hollow shadow. Just then this calls to mind, again, the near ones, their lives completed, taken out of time, who have not altogether flown away. Lost only to our sight and sound and touch, they press back, never vanish utterly. So perhaps we, as well – sometime-recalled at such a thin disjuncture – will infiltrate, through topmost twigs along this downward plane, a texture or a tone in reach of senses that are not bound by any dying day. Anxious for answers, one could wonder, How else contact you, who stood once, close beside? Can far-envisioning, devout feat or cast of careful voice – or all – open a way? What traces waken across vacant dark?
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