Not the prickly
cool of morning,
Nor the heat of
noonday's glare;
Not the
blackness of night,
Nor the gaudy
daylight's flair.
Evening is a
time of transition,
A moment between
two worlds;
It is neither
one nor the other,
But both at
once, unfurled.
It does not look
directly at you,
But rather, it
slowly reveals itself;
It sheds its
delicate nature
Until you are
immersed in its spell.
Like a pretty
woman who steals a glance,
Then hesitates,
then looks again.
The onlooker is
in ecstasy,
Drinking deep of
the nectar of pleasure,
Which is tiny
and rivulet-like,
Yet he yearns
for more.
Pleasure is
organically prolonged,
Not the gaudy
beauty of naked forms;
This is beauty
returned to its primeval state,
Coyness itself, a crime for the Mower.
