open palms.

I wish I could chase the sunset.

It runs, quickly, like early summer peaches enveloped in their hot baking house, and arriving out again as a pie or cobbler. Funny how the sun sinks, and yet it still emits such brilliance to the surrounding wisps of cloud. Strangely enough, too, I hear birds. Chirping. Singing their evening lullabies, just as they do to wake me at dawn. There is order. Routine. The comfort of knowing what to expect.

And yet, not.

For each time the ice cream sun melts away, a new and different one takes its place. Each melody hummed by the sparrows and swallows is not the same as it once was.

And I remember--as I am so prone to forgetting--that although I cannot decree nor determine the color of tomorrow's sunset, some things will always stay faithful. For this I am thankful.


H