In Late Light

The wind moves slowly through the reeds,

Brushing the water with sighs.

A heron lifts from the water,

with only the sound of wings.

The willows let go of their gold,

One leaf at a time,

As if reluctant to part

But willing, in the end.

The creek still feels summer

In the way it glints at dusk

shimmering with quietness

that belongs to our memory.

We stand on the bank,

Not saying much,

Letting the moment gather

Like mist over the land.

It will pass. We know.

And we know better

than to embrace it quickly.

Still,

We hope it lingers,

Not forever,

Only long enough

that we don't forget.