Libera me

Late November peppers the sky with cirrus clouds,
blackened underneath, and suggestive of cold rain.
Rain which may fall
sometime soon –
but not today –
then, presently, a screeching-halt sunset descends,
assaults,
roads curving into evening,
lined with empty see-through buildings illumined by the practiced forlorn of nightfall.
How it skulks along the edges –
of sky
of earth
of perception –
easily, comfortably,
so that when you read the story of your life in the dim nightfall,
it is magnified by hopefulness and disappointment,
beginnings and endings,
where you came from and how you got there,
all jumbled together, as you imagine twirling madly in pleated plaid,
once again belly-laughing,
knee socks dropping to gooseflesh covered ankles.
This is where you began,
and to where you can always return.
Soon there will be moonlight,
also practiced in its forlorn,
yet
set
free.