Dawn or Dusk – a typewriter poem

The hours of twilight conflate as the day begins to stretch. Christmas evening the crescent moon caught in the dark branches of the oak, all up the street our little lamps sparkling. This morning the light emerging a few seconds earlier with a pale gray possum, face like a glimmering moon roaming the dim yard. These quiet days as the year slows to its end between one feast and the next, there is a stillness lingering as tho time is digesting its own poems now.

dawn or dusk


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
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