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A Tale of Dusk
      by Imani Sims

I 
feel
 like
I’m writing her last
poem,
scripting our final moments
into eternity,
tracing her frame
for the last time
and staring into the abyss
that are her chestnut eyes,
hours stacking into days,
days cracking open weeks
to finale,
the moment of denouement
falling away
to culminating scene,
linear journey
with serenity,
hushed tones
gently grazing soft laughter,
like the wind dances
through reeds,
teasing tall grass
into leaning,

breeze

making us aware of time
and our submission
to it's inevitable progression,
we grasp the tale of dusk,
riding night
to sunrise,
in an effort to extend
what's been cut short.

pop 
the cork

aerate the silken
finesse
present in an aged wine,
bring character and beauty
to simplicity locked within glass,
pour,
fingers sliding down
round bottom,
splashing to tip,

sip

until the last sands slip
through time.

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