The light in the evening when “twilight steals over the way” has a depth of beauty that invites pausing with awe. My days have afforded smaller writing spaces, but no matter, one can always pause and notice and take it in and remember. The old apple tree caressed by the gloaming is a rich offering at days’ end, and the way that the hollyhocks and dipladenias cup the amber light beckons one to drink deep.
This is a favourite poem of mine by Jane Kenyon. It’s entitled, “Let Evening Come”.
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in the long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den,
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
