As I drive south from Highland,
I see more than a hint
of coming cold
in the long flat of gray
spreading all the way east to Troy.
But the least strokes of a setting sun
have begun to edge the slight curls of long clouds
stretching low from the west;
light pinks alternate with fingers of slate,
forming a grate over the hills toward Hiawatha.
The last of light filters from that scuttled sky
and soon dies in the settling darkness.
The image of that brief beauty
will not keep me warm tonight
but it is good to have its comforting memory
as I settle underneath soft covers,
feel the touch of the woman I love,
and remember that God’s good gifts
last beyond the changing of seasons.