The Hour Between

In the crepuscular hour,
when daylight loosens its
hold on the earth
and evening gathers its shadows,
I walk alone beneath the trees.

There is a susurration
in the leaves,
a mellifluous murmur
of wind and memory,
as though the earth
were speaking
in a language older
than sorrow.

Then rain comes—
brief, silver, almost evanescent—
and leaves upon
the dry earth
the dark fragrance
of petrichor,
a scent that carries
me to places I can n
o longer name.

Through the branches,
a lambent light trembles,
neither day nor night,
but something suspended
 between them.

And suddenly,
in that quiet,
the world becomes oneiric—
half memory, half dream—
while the last warmth of the sun
rests upon my hands:
a small apricity
borrowed from winter.

There is something
numinous here,
something that makes
 silence sacred,
something indubitable
though impossible to prove
that beauty does not stay.

It arrives like light,
whispers like leaves,
breathes through rain,
and disappears before
 we can possess it.

Perhaps that is why
the heart tries to name it—

though the deepest things
remain ineffable,

and all our words,
however beautiful,
are only candles
held up against the dark.