How the light is sad.
How it will not leave us alone.
How we are tugged up staircases
by the way it angles across landings.
Or just our faces - tipped
to the clear, depleted sky.
How because of sunset, the imagination
headquarters in the west.
Spring in the north: all that
tawny grass and gravel and nothing
green to sop up the excessive honesty.
Outside our windows,
something like youth or promises.
How the wind blows right through them,
- Jan Zwicky
Songs For Relinquishing The Earth