Looking Out The Window

 The light from the parlor spills out to the lane, A golden-warm glow through the cool evening rain. While the valley beyond fades to indigo mist, By the last of the sun that the hilltop has kissed.

Behind the glass pane, where the shadows are deep, A figure is watching as world-noises sleep. Are they dreaming of journeys, or counting the stars? Or finding a peace that the daylight debars?

The hydrangeas bow in the soft, scentless breeze, As twilight descends through the shivering trees. In a house full of life, there’s a moment of still— Just a soul and the silence, atop of the hill.