As children we called twilight "blue dark".
The sky is never as lovely as then,
like you and I it strives
inked in indigo,
never blue enough--just blue.
night waiting on the stoop.
Oh, how long ago it seems
living only in memories, old photographs
And echoes of mother calling us inside
for a supper already cold.
Oh, deep sky
lit with faint, distant embers;
it's getting dark,
and I'm growing a deeper blue.