Once upon a time, I was occasionally a poet. As the years have gone by, I've lost the habit, but I'd love to start again. The hardest part of writing is "killing your darlings" - well, it is at the time you're writing it. Going back seven years later, it's easy to delete everything you've ever written with a keystroke because you're embarrassed by it. But I still like this one, so I'll post it. I don't remember what Twilight I was, but I do remember I submitted this to my poetry class with a disclaimer that it had nothing in common with the then-presently-popular trilogy. Has it been long enough yet that we can say a time of day without invoking sparkly vampires?
Now there might be
a wedge of moon; a silver pin
in dark hair. It is before the stars,
and after all the sun’s gold drains
to liquid blue. Each thing with breath,
each tree and humming stone,
sheds its own cold little glow. The sun
was made a gift for men, but the first ones,
the ones who knew the secret
shapes and ways of things,
they lived in this hour’s light.
Now she is a woman
who blooms for an hour; an inky depth
of cobalt soaking up sky. She lights each thing
a globe of sight, tinged a muted moonstone
with dark fluid edges rising.
Strange shapes and hidden faces blink
briefly into view.
Now the unadorned sister
retires her soft colors,
and black Night assumes
the wearing of the moon,
centered on a circlet of white stars.