Upon the quiet hill the evening lingers,  
And dusk unthreads its silver through the pine;  
The wind, a patient harp beneath the fingers  
Of twilight, draws a slow, reflective line.  

The last bird folds its song into the sky,  
Where first stars open like a book of fire;  
The fields, once loud with day, now rest nearby,  
A fading pulse, a tender, hushed desire.  

And in that hush, the heart forgets its haste;  
It learns the shape of stillness, deep and true;  
The world, though briefly held and all embraced,  
Becomes more vast in every shade of blue.  

So let this hour, though brief, remain in me:  
A quiet gate to all that cannot be.

Newton Faulkner, Dream Catch Me

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