I ride a van home every night, twenty miles, in waning light.
It gives me time to contemplate, the changing seasons; and all the reasons, why the city steals my time, and doesn't rhyme.
Sometimes in winter, a front comes through, clears the air, and brings to view, a winter sunset, to renew.
My soul; and make me whole, in a melancholy way, basking in the warmth of the blood red glow behind tall buildings of a dying day.
Soon, the night will come down like a cold rock on my heart.
Copyright 1998 © Ronald W. Hull