Revisionist Poetry – “Ember Hour” – Hints of Sunset, v.2

The sun hangs low—
a coal bruised red
against the throat of evening,
bleeding sepia through the bones of trees.

One final flare
before the west closes over it.

Cold gathers early.
Along the roads,
the wind rehearses its sharp grammar,
lifting loose snow
like pale ash from a dying fire.

Somewhere beyond the hills,
the storm is assembling itself—
vast,
deliberate,
buttoning the sky with iron cloud.

Yet still the windows burn with amber light.

For several breath-held moments,
the world refuses surrender.
Branches stand unmoving.
Power lines hum softly in the blue dusk.
Even the houses seem to listen.

Then comes that strange winter feeling:
fear braided with longing.

We watch from behind thermopane glass
while the dark presses close,
beautiful in its severity.

And deep within the storm’s white mouth,
silence opens—

not empty,
but waiting.