The Sky was Sketched in Pastel

A formless little poem about sunsets and roses.

The sky was sketched in pastel

And the warmest, homeliest, richest depth of orange

Was scraping up from the sun setting beneath the horizon

Stars bespattered the velvet eastern heavens where the moon began to grow

And the roses, though they were riddled with thorns, were closing for the night

They showed no signs of bitter regret, nor snaking fear before the darkness

Their scores were unsettled and their lives were a mess

But they had loved the day

And made peace with the zephyr sweeping over the mountain behind them

Diamonds like kites were strewn in the sand before them

And as the sea swelled in soft waves, the deep orb disappeared

The light slowly dwindled

And the roses slept