Slowly the evening puts on the clothes
that a row of ancient trees extends.
You look: two separate worlds are disclosed,
one rising to heaven, another that descends,
leaving you something of a stranger in both,
not quite as dim as a house without light,
nor quite as certain as a sacred oath
that aims at infinity, like a comet in the night —
leaving you (who can never be unraveled)
with the fear and immensity and ripening of who you are
so that, with the orbit of your understanding half traveled,
life appears as a stone in you, and then suddenly, a star.