Apogee
A wedge of moon
persists in a cobalt sky,
as light fractures itself,
splaying its fingers
through the reluctant dark,
soon to be gone.
Black lace filaments
on licorice black trees
dangle their dainty digits
in a waning wind.
Hushed and shy is dawn
as she adjusts her
flamenco skirts
to brush the morning sky.
Not night now,
but not quiet full of day,
teetering, give - take
until day at last wins.
And in that apogee
that is not one or other,
does time stop
and take a breath, pulling
itself back into
its cycle eager to go on?
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