It hangs on its
stem like a plum
at the edge of a
It’s swelling and
blushing and ripe
and I reach out a
hand to pick it
but flesh moves
slow through time
comes on fast
and just when I
think my fingers
might seize that
sweetness at last
the gentlest of
and the plum lets
go of the stem.
And now it’s my
and evening that’s
reaching for them.
~Geoffrey Brock, “The Day” author of Voices Bright Flags
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
~Jane Kenyon, from “Let Evening Come” from Collected Poems.
So much of our living is preparing for rest and here we are, fighting it every step of the way.
We resist it mightily:
the toddler fussing about taking a nap,
the youngster devoted to their screen time and unwilling to surrender to darkness, or
the parent trying to eke out the last bit of daylight to get the chores done.
We are comforted by activity.
We are created in the image of One who remembered to rest.
So must we be “evened” by Him.
The evening comes – there is no stopping it –
we are to settle into it, our fingertips ripening,
to close our eyes and drift on the comfort it brings.