The gloaming comes, the day is spent,
The sun goes out of sight.
And painted is the Occident
With purple sanguine bright.
We’re in the gloaming of this series, ‘tween light and night, when physical prime meets spiritual wisdom, and fire fades into moon. It’s the joy of aliveness and the grief in loss. It’s twilight.
So, let us gather our orchids while we may, paint every chapter as if it’s first stroke in an inspired exploration. ‘Tis another season and all are full of beauty.