Crawling tendrils lose their strength

As evening nestles in, first in the valleys

Then to my home.

Today, its light: a brother,

Other times, it is a friend.

Sometimes the light canters on-

Even past the numbing clouds-

A messenger, and the first to console.

Sometimes he comes, wise and unassuming

To guide me on paths I cannot see.

So when his grip falls tired across the lawn

I let mine do the same

And trust the day will come again.