beyond the still
of eight o’clock –
candles breech the distance
and gather round
the aging fence –
like wayward butterflies
lost to winds
their mirrored soul –
now they light the darkness
to guard the path
along the wood
lest I be coming back
and see them there
a multitude of promises I’ve known –
whispers like the silk
that is their sound
nightlights where the evening sits
yellow flashing signs
of where they go
I cannot say for sure
but in the peace that touches me
when I have passed beyond
I breathe into the rush
that knows my soul