Pastel fingers close another winter day;
night wraps its cold around the trees,
the rocks, the tiny lives that move
across the fragile surface of our world;
trees reach up hungry for the light, as
darkness swallows branches, twigs and
bark, the timid chattering of feathered,
furried creatures, hushed and hidden now in
shadowed crannies of the earth.
The darkness hints of other nights;
farewells past, those yet to come;
laughter silenced, light withdrawn;
shadows in a valley that awaits.
Lady of Day, Lady of Night, pray for us
now and in the hour of our death.
Pray for us as pastels shimmer just
beyond our earth-bound sight,
whispering soft against the night,
against the loss, against our fear and dread.
God of beginnings, of endings—all One,
hear our tremblings, hold our sighs;
paint our coming nights with palette soft,
in sunset hues that limn for us tomorrow’s
hope—a morning-shine, a painting bright,
a day that ever will begin.