Sunset is everyday, ordinary
as waves sloshing up a beach, so the cynic
finds no worth. But open eyes see
miracles never twice the same.
The wind that makes the wave
grows from sunfire, and from
the same spin of Earth
that makes Sun fall and rise,
the pull of Moon that tugs the tides.
Sunfall behind a veil of clouds is a glory
that pierces hearts,
father of campfire flames that compel
our atavistic eyes, the hunger rarely quenched.
It all comes down to fire,
that warms us, brights us, feeds us,
and every evening falls down horizons ablaze
to begin again the truth of dying and reviving
and bids to us good night.