Vespers

Now it is evening, the light rushes to fall

on a day disappearing into elemental shades,

the reddest red, blue's blue, the yellow yellowing

going down.

Today is the first day of spring, lengthening

toward that ripening where it can start decline

from the long day in which I count each minute out

until dark falls and, exhausted, I am satisfied.

Mine is the world seen by Confucius, by Jesus,

St. Teresa, by Dickinson, alone in her room,

facing a pit she opened on the floor, word by word,

granting her darkness as she spoke its resting place.

How can I dare to be afraid tonight,

part as I am of this earth turning to dust,

each breath propelling me by its eternity of motion?

How do I dare? Because I am nothing here,

light gone entirely now, like all of them,

like even one, without it gone.