Twilighting

by Amy Soricelli

She is the swirly waterfall -  the small circle of around and around water
before it glides down to the end, the bottom-
catching itself mad open  as the years disappear like mist.
The sun slips like a shadow behind every wall  -hiding her soul deep in a doorway,
packed tight like a fist.

He watches sometimes, from his perch on the ceiling -
how small she seems in the evening light -how vacant in her new gray hair.
She seems lost in the flowers on the carpet.  Small yellows and blues pick up the color in her eyes
as she dances along the walls and slips between his pauses.

Today she remembered the long thorny walks of who they were -
remembered the simple plaid shirt, buttons that he missed,
the tree lined parkway of their first summer -singing to the radio breezing by the gas stations,
postcards of state birds stuffed in back pockets like a comb.

She is the ice in his glass and the sudden rain.

It cannot be held in a shape -  the hollow feeling of losing her minutes by seconds;
years fall away, lost in a cloud like old makeup.

He rushes to her call when she remembers his name.
It will be full dark again before it is said louder than a whisper.
Not to worry, he can hear.