Sinking Daystar

I have seen 23,011 sunsets or so.

Each one different than the night before.

Each one a newborn,

crying out on an early eve.

There is something about a newborn cry.

Your heart opens wider just at the sound.

Your eyes are softer. Your soul more gentler.

Their inch high fingers touch the sky.

They enkindle the heavens.

The clouds light up.

Laden booties stamp golden dust from the gloaming,

Lighting the way for us to follow.

Orange and pink streamers roll out

pulling us closer, approaching gleaming mirrors.

The treasured twilight opens and

swallows the last riches of the day.