The Rustlings

The day flame sputters down to rest, Its plump import on ebbing crest. Small rustlings steal with gossamer spark Around the corners of the dark. Their song is edged in lavender And overlaid with sweet herb flavor. They tap on memory's closet door And nudge the shoe box on the floor. One silver shoe strap dangles free, Its fibers drenched in a young green sea. The old blue gown sways to and fro, In tandem with the long ago. And for a time the blue gown twirls, While the dance unfolds in dusty swirls. Kings and queens trace perfect moves Along clearcut future grooves. Gray souls are brushed with herbs and musk, Exchange is made of diamond dust. There's banishment of empty questions, Fulfillment, too, of best intentions. But the moon is hung with a slender thread, Its waltzing face sinks low to bed. The guardians of the day are banding, Strident, pompous and demanding. The ritual of the rustlings ends, The day, the night, complete their blends. And weary rustlings fade away Within the blue-white flame of day.