The day closes, Where light melds into The thick cotton of evening. Fires burn low, embers fade, Yet the air is rich with life, As shadows dance with purpose, Drifting into rest— I breathe the moment, Shaped by fern and dust, To be swallowed by the night, Matting ground soft, Hold me in secrets, The embrace of stillness, Each star a push, a tick, a beat;
The pulse of the world, Woven and whole.

• Margaret Atwood