I N T H E G LOAMING Buff Whitman-Bradley The sun is sinking below the hills But we can still see its light On the tall trees across the way Like a departing lover in an old movie Waving a handkerchief From the last car on the train. We know That she won’t stay away for good That after the film is over She and her sweetheart Will find each other again And realizing how foolish they’d been To think they did not belong together. They will remain inseparable For sixty years And then they will die sweetly Hours apart. The sunlight keeps climbing the trees As a gentle darkness Spreads below Throughout the neighborhood Blessing the roofs of houses And garden sheds Whispering goodnight To parked cars and back yards And loyal old mailboxes. And now we are immersed In the gloaming The tenderly melancholy hour When we find ourselves able To regard the errors and failures Of the past With more sadness than blame With more empathy than accusation With more forgiveness Of ourselves and others Than sometimes seems possible In the unrelenting glare of noon Or the snarling insomnia of midnight.
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