Low Sunset

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.