Dear Sunset,
I’m tired of turning you into a poem.
Grasping at words, petty,
trying to stretch them to fit your frame.
This is me – always trying to articulate.
Understand, first.
Make you well-explained and sensible.

When really…

My heart…
Would so much rather…
Watch colors bleed:
Fire of Love;
Un-distilled fusion – of – Feeling…

Yet Quiet…
I’m wondering…
Is it possible for me to just be still?!
Listen to “seek Glory!”?
See you:
Evidence that I’m part of a bigger story I could never fully comprehend.
I was made for so much more!
Why is it so difficult for me to become so much less?
Think so much less…
Of me?

Dear Sunset,

I am afraid;
I’m inclined to try far too hard to turn you into another poem.
I am sorry.
This is my frailty.
My selfishness.
Forgive me. Please.
I am putting down my pen.
Because this is not about me or how and when I will have my next poem.


This is not about me… Period.
So here I am.

Learning and yearning to learn.
And I just want to be here, with you.
And I just want to be here, fearful.
And I just want to be here, silent.
And I just want… to marvel.


© Julie Wangombe