These February evenings, our invisible daytime Moon,
lost in the Sun’s glare, has moved
east of the setting sun, a crescent
briefly seen in the west after sundown.
Earthshine is softly lighting the dark side.
Fulgent, dazzlingly bright is the evening star
in the glowing western sky at sunset.
The same radiant light that Wordsworth saw
200 years ago, and Roman poets millennia
before that – fulgēre shine and flagrare burn.
Birds pecking rapidly at the yellowing grass.
Squirrels harvesting acorns that tap all afternoon,
falling on the table, chairs and me,
staring at the setting sun. It hurts.
And every day I think about dying.