Low Sunset

Tuesday, September 22, 2020

Faces coated in tangerine hues.
Green fields get a glimpse
of the golden tassels to come in autumn.
Your honied hair now a fiery auburn
in the center of the nether horizon.
I look down at my fingertips
bewildered at how olive mingles so smoothly
with the candlelight orange of the evening.
Galloping alongside us, our dog,
Cedar in color and name,
now tined in the bronze of an ancient statue.
I whisper how I wish we could live in the low sunset
of each night's beckoning. 
You tell me, "Then nothing would grow."

This piece was published on page 55 of the Volume 1 Issue 3 Fall 2020 issue of Flora Fiction.

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