Long Shadows

Long shadows are the best variety; they begin
at something beautiful
and then expand luxuriously.

Splaying their black ink onto the tilted lawn, long shadows ache for some edge over which to spill. They vibrate with the shimmer of an autumn bonfire.

They recall days long past.

Long shadows sink into the frayed hem of evening.
They echo something just beyond our ability to hear.
Arching over detail, they employ no hue but of the night.

I ask you, bring a host, a bevy, a bushel-full of long shadows to me
the last evening I have a voice,
when my final steps falter.

on their cusp will I drink deeply and have enough to hold me
until the coals sink into their ashen bed.