When the world slips into night
and the fire dies, the cold creeps,
and the rustling among the trees
might be leaves and it might not,
The here, the now,
the present moment floats,
and the hand grasps at empty space.
Words hang, a soft breath,
their modelling blurred,
and the hare that runs
through the light cast by the window
is faint as a ghost,
a piece of night
with another world in its eyes.