Quiet

All she needs is a moment of quiet,

a moment of silence to collect her thoughts.

Just a minute or two to close her eyes,

and empty her mind of the daily clutter

that so often litters the floor of reason.

This is the best part of her day,

when the sun begins to dip below the horizon

and the clouds are tinted pink like cotton candy

and the sky is streaked with light lilac

on top of a dark cerulean canvas

and the birds twitter quietly to their young

to sleep, to rest, for the great gold light

is leaving the sky, and the silver eye of night

will rapidly succeed its daytime counterpart.

This is the great part of her day,

when she can sit out on her porch under 

the dusky glow of eventide and enjoy the chirpings

and sweet music of the crickets and katydids

hiding in her rosebushes and great oak tree leaves

the color of a richly hued emerald with delicate veins

running across a fuzzy landscape of soft, single, upright

blades of grass so prolific as an ancient forest.

This is the calm part of her day,

when the stars sprinkle out of the raven sky,

arrayed around the moon like attendants

waiting on their great lady- Diane, Phoebe, Artemis-

whose sure aim has not yet proven false

across the centuries, nay, even nigh on four millennia,

whose bow has yet to be broken.

This is the reflective part of her day,

when she takes a moment as nature's nightly performance

goes on to play out as it is wont to do,

and ponders on her most inner thoughts, those which,

if looked at and made known to another, would seem

to be naught but the things of fancy, the inventions of whim,

but to her are deemed the most prized above all.

All she needs is a moment of quiet.