Slowly She Goes Poem by Alan Strand

She goes down so slowly
That magnificent golden little ball,
Slipping silently and reluctantly
Below the misty distant hills.
She burns a firey retreat,
And in the quickly cooling air
A touch of Fall lingers there
Like a memory
Reminding me of you,
In many ways so beautiful
But painful was our parting.

Only now am I starting
To really feel alive inside.

And though the setting sun
Slides past the hazy horizon
Thin veils of cloud
Sit wispily atop
Shrouded snowy peaks
That are still all aglow
As if to gaily celebrate
It’s daily passing
With splashes of pretty pinks.

Along the waveless shore
Small sailboats bob
And patiently face the opening
Of the gently rippled bay
To await for the clamoring
Of salt-free hands
To get the motors going
And chug them out
Into less placid waters
Where steady ocean breezes
Can easily whip them into
A seemingly incessant
Onslaught of waves
Capable of drowning out
Excited laughter
That spills from the decks.

But what the heck
That will have to wait
For, like all great things,
The right time,
Not now when Nature’s day
Bids us adieu
And takes away the ocean view
With a breezy lullaby
Of geese and ducks
Who tuck themselves
Into the darkening foliage
Along the increasingly shapeless shore,
For they too must sleep
And possibly dream
About the glorious beating
Of their outstretched wings
That will take them to
A safe feeding ground.

How I long for the sun
To shine once again
Into the loveless recesses of my heart
So that I can start
To feel fully here and now.
Somehow I know
That I will mend
And I hope the same
For you too my friend.
It’s not an easy thing to do-
To let go the love I had for you.

I watch the pale purples and pinks
On the failing canvass of dark blues,
And all hues in between,
Fade to grays and finally to black
For dead is another day,
And that is O.K.
Because the warming sun
Will rise again
When the stars up above
Are replaced by a galaxy
Of jewel dew drops
That herald the new dawn.

My spirits will surely rise too
When I think of deeply meeting you
After she slowly goes away
Fading with each passing day.

(Sitting on a picnic table when it was nearly dark at Rocky Point,02/04/02.)
.