The highlight is the firework show of falling stars,
the way they flare up and then drop in multitudes
like cosmic rain, as if darkness will never come.

When the moon rises, it’s a long walk down a trail
bathed in the warm neon glow of a crimson halo,
the woods gently lit as by the heat of a campfire.

Aromas of burnt wood hover, yet trees still stand in clusters,
branches stretched in scribbled shadows across the path,
psalms whispered in the rustling of leaves in the gale.

Even the bodies scattered in the dirt seem arranged
as an audience, eyes awe-opened like blooming flowers,
palms cupped as porcelain vessels, waiting in anticipation.

And why not? Isn’t every evening a gift to be savored,
even the ones made darker by ash? And doesn’t beauty
sparkle like starlight even when smashed into pieces?