When the Evening Comes

This night's hand stretches
across the purpled green-

a finger pointed
at the hills.

We say
"we understand, we see"
when there is nothing.

The shadow of nothing-

an errant arrow,
a poisoned owl, the jagged
flight of moths

makes its way back
to our misted window.

A child might say-
"see how clouds
resemble horses?"

Or an old man
pray to the face
of his absent lover...

a young man inhale
the skin of roses
in his private dreams.

What creature flies
or walks a straight line?

Who returns
from the long journey
with an unspent spine?

Even the proud willow
bows over the lake

when the evening comes.