The boy is tearing sunset with his eyes.
The fey leaves turn in sequences of dusk.
Such fragile color cannot last for long.
Someone should hold him till his vision fails.
You need not tell him that his measurement
Just missed tomorrow by a shadow's length.
Say winning of the dusk paints him so tall,
That he can hitch a ride down with the sun.
Dedicated to a street child whose name is known only to God.
Previously published, 'Riverrun'
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-winning-of-the-dusk/
