Pink Parade

Day works into night,

a great blue heron silhouettes black against

the last pink slip of sunset.

Near the end of my route,

kitchen lights outnumber the stars,

the year's new twilight shadows me home.

If nothing had changed, this dusk would make

all the difference, but our flag flags

in bitter gusts of assumption.

Now a planet blinks through the trees.

Stern branches, still bare, bow in a promise

of bud, leaf, and flower, even fruit.

Hope springs eternal,

because the Eternal rises from mud,

springs from the tomb, and pours, like rain

into the street.


Will Schmit