Why does that hour that brings the shadows
creeping into the crevices that surround me
cause such a tightening in my chest?
What magic spell does it weave,
what memory locked in childhood's dreams
responds so eagerly?
Crystal clear, it seems, it becomes
as shadows creep, covering ever more
of the soft, brown rocks.
And yet, it can not be so.
As shadows fall, more is hidden.
Perhaps I see clearer
when I have less to see.