The Final Bow

The Final Bow

and the sun goes down

with a cry, every evening,

begging not to be forgotten.

pouring out its pastels, its fiery rays

onto the sky, full of dusk.

but those shouts are never gone long,

as the moon echoes the brushstrokes,

so soon forgotten.

Sometimes, certain words hit, and have to be written down with haste. While I have a-ways to go in terms of poetry, I do find nature to be a subject full of never-ending opportunity. On that particular day, the sun seemed to meet the earth in a way that begged to be captured.

We have been reading Emerson in American Literature, and I admire his call for poetry, and for poets to lead the way to beauty. While it may be difficult to break free from all that is conventional, I do believe there is a grain of truth in finding the glory of nature and of creation in one's own heart, how it strikes you as an individual. I believe this is how we can find the places in which God speaks closely to us. Whether poets are born or built-up, I am uncertain, but I do hope to continue to find the world in new ways.

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