A Year of Poems – Day 97

Dusk casts odd angles on the backs of heads
pressed as pixel thin as the newest screen
working the latest version of machine
churning to multiply their daily bread.
The angled rays diffuse off of the clouds
radiating out the sun’s dying heat
as clouds wrap round in a funeral shroud.
Which will soon vanish to a dirge-like beat
tapped on the keyboards, inside of the homes,
where life goes on despite this procession
which recurs every day in slow regression
down to night. But until that time, the gloaming
will burnish it all until it all glows
like the bud of a rose about to grow.