The trees are still; no evening breeze inquires
Of any forest sentinel the way,
Through thick green vails descending from the spires,
Toward some fulfillment at the close of day.
The skies are still; no fleet of clouds in motion,
Intent on course, in graceful, earnest flight
Across the high and deep celestial ocean,
Lends tempo to the overture to night.
But as the glow recedes, to end all seeing,
The lightest, dimmest, faintest-pulsing star,
Released from all these hours of non-being,
Triangulates the space from here to far.
The glimmering, primsmed message sent to me
Finds too a window high above the sea.
Perfection · A Thousand Words