The last light of day — the yawn before the dawn.
That golden ray shines fiercely, gasping, grasping, clinging on to that final moment.

Where do you stand in this?
Do you let it whimper away?
Do you fan the flame?
Do you stand in the cool blue shadows?

Look along the cliff’s edges, golden lines.
Brown eyes trace them, gaze fleeting,
a faint tremble upon the lips.
You murmur, a gentle growl floating in the breeze.

A soft blow of warm air flows from the gray clouds.
Wispy. Bare. Smeared there among the skies.
A lone shadow stretches beyond you.

You.
Who are you?

It’s hard to tell sometimes.
Which “you” counts the most?
The first you?
The old you?
The you now?
The new you?
Who?

Shadows morph as the day passes.
Eastward. Westward. Beginning? End?

Meet me in the middle.
I am in the becoming.