L'Heure Bleue
L’Heure Bleue
Winter comes into early spring,
Patches of grey crusted old snow linger in the shadows under spruce sentinels.
Larches still bare-branches, only for support of their moss beards.
Scraggily aspen limbs silhouetted against the sky
Crossed by airplane signatures of travel above, to far away unknown places.
The wind now laid to rest as day winds down.
On the valley floor surrounded by ancient craggy uplifted mountains
Capped with snow and surrounded by green belts of spruce and fire.
Winding down, the golden eye of God
Moves silently, almost drawn by the horizon beyond the mountain ridges.
Welcoming, awaiting, dreaming, of l’heure bleue
As twilight gathers.
Layering of colors -peach, violet, magenta and purple.
Veils never distinct but melting, fusing into the coming darkening,
As light fades and chill comes.
The silence of lambs, the putting up of memories, the opalescent retreat within,
Gathering time and place as a cloak to keep warmth within.
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