The Quiet Man
Our summer settles as the sun-rays pain the hills
From gold to a softer brown.
Trees only half-lit, flick the afternoon from their fingertips,
They primp and strip the bright day for the night gown.
The matinee price is paid,
A grey blue sky reminds all who labor to cease;
And make whatever way one makes homeward.
Twilight calls for silence,
Tea or coffee with the inner man.
What who said
And where why said it
Become faded, and unimportant.
All is evening and all is bliss
When a single soul stops its march
And waits on him,
The quiet man, who meets with men,
And makes them men.