we’ll have that moment
on a weekday night
when the patch of sky
above our yard glowed
pink and purple,
incandescent—our son
jumping on the trampoline, his
sisters chatting with our neighbor
friends, and you, running to the
store real quick for a bundle of
wood to make our own fire so we
can linger in the afterglow of
what I imagine the train of God’s
robe passing by would be
like—-the warmth of his hand
tucking us in
to these pleasant boundaries of
dogwoods, oaks, and cypress trees
whose needles are yellowing with
cooler days and darker nights; if
only we could reach into the sky
and touch the trailing hem of
glory.