Sometimes
In the early evening,
When the sky is indigo and
Corrugated with clouds
That thin at the horizon
To meet the orange-purple light
Spilling from the center,
The bare roots of
Winter
Writhe and wave
In the wind,
Reach upward, wring
Their lower limbs and
Try fretfully to grasp
The shroud of
Night
Like a cloak and yank it
Over the firmament.