night of the dying sun

your mother wore that dress some years ago
to fairy lights that shimmered into phase
about her, like a tree in rays of gold,
her warmth, the sweetest color of embrace.
the day she said your name, i held its grace,
repeated it and fell under its sway.
through labor pains, she sang the whispered phrase,
my evening flower blooms the darkest day.

through gritty summers spent, i watched you grow
from dust to dust, reborn in solar rays,
from mud playing girl to pirouetting doe
with black swan energy atop life's stage.
you'll soon outgrow the little girl i raise,
in memory, to pick apart the way
that stars align and whisper, through their gaze,
my evening flower blooms the darkest day.

like water falls, our time reveres to flow,
like sparks that birth a forest into blaze,
the passion i discern within your soul,
that palpability of love and rage
continues on— i'll be the one who stays.
don't fret, mon fleur, we'll be again someday.
till then, i'll dream this dream— that whispered phrase:
my evening flower blooms the darkest day.

my dearest, let no tears preclude your face,
but dance— oh, dear... it's time— but dance away
and let no crin'line cage refuse your blaze,
my evening fleur. You bloom the darkest day.