The evening holds a place for me,
By riverside and willow tree,
A railroad bridge where water bends,
The river swells and land contends
Its slow migration to the sea.
The waning moon that rises late,
I eagerly anticipate,
A late night nymph, her shim'ring dance,
A mystic fog and starry trance,
A lullaby inveterate.
The gentle twisting of the stream,
Not silent, but no less serene,
Which, weaving into silv'ry thread,
The morning's gold and sunset's red,
It sews along the valley's seam.
I think I know its message though,
The babbling tale it winds below:
That all has only numbered days,
And also, that persistence pays,
And drawn along is how we go.
I may remain until the morn
To see the evening curtain torn,
The crack of dawn that breaks the night,
That sweet release of morning light.
Another blessèd day is born.
c. Jan 2001
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