Sweet is my memory
That I am not a morning person–
Glorying in the dawn, the revelatory nutty scent of brewing coffee–
No. I prefer dusk.
Evenings, the onset of dew
The fade of heat into something more gentle
The smell of dry grass, ready to seed, giving way to rose petal, wet earth.
For a few years I thought I was a morning person
The light startled me awake and like a fawn, uncertain, I awoke.
But now the sun sets at 9:23 and I revel in it, cradling every last moment of pink and purple glory.
Now the sun sets at 9:23 and I wait for it, the blue-green shade, the mountains to match the hills to match the sky.
Now I sit in the dark alone with my breath
I abandon the pressures of dawn
For the soliloquy of night.