I feel you in the pouring rain

violent or soft as a summer storm.

A distant star you appear only to fade

into the night from which you came.

Decaying gardenias fill my room with mortality

a treacly specter of  memories.

Wounded hearts are slow to heal

I have become indifferent to pain.

We are a wasteland,  all poetic breath died with us.

I long for the scent of earth infused with deep roots

the soothing sounds of chimes swaying from the

limb of a live oak,  soothing sounds for the twilight hours.

Image result for paintings of dying gardenias

 

147 thoughts on “the twilight hours”

          1. Your prose and poetry are consistently fantastic. I sit there in awe over how you weave words into images and appeal to emotions so skillfully. Reading your writing is always thought provoking and delightful.

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  12. I can definitely live this lovely poem in my mind. The sky full of promise, the earthen reality. The gardenias, so powerful and fragrant in their prime are now passed like the memories of youth. And there is more, so much more. There is so much depth like layers upon layers, each one a clue to the next until in closing we can see it all. Your flower pic is a beautiful reference.

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  14. You’ve put me on that swinging bench I sat upon in my youth.
    Under its awning, rain and night have, as you said, become the twilight hours.
    Life passes quickly.
    A stunningly beautiful and haunting poem, Holly! x

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  34. Your words like the chimes you describe upon the oak soothe all who read them of that I am certain…
    Have a beautiful week dear Holly … And I hope those Twilight hours are velvet soft and filled with twinkling stars..

    Much love dearest Holly… ❤ 😘💝

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      1. Very true. I was thinking of one’s own pain. That would be a strength. Of course as a nurse you are confronted with pain on a daily basis. And that pain you cannot be indifferent to. 🙂
        You must be a great nurse…
        Be good.

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