The sun hides now in the bright west sky,
Holly bushes birth in threes, in
A garden alive in color,
And the dogs are stealthy on the
Evening land of spring,
Hunting small creatures.
They are part of the cycle.
Light in the room fades
Past the twilight;
No sounds arrive, and
That is all, enough, for my deep breathing,
My sighs; I let the small universe outside this
Pastoral gaze settle just
Enough for a moment of balance.
