The Golden Hour

THE GOLDEN HOUR This is the golden hour. Windows let in light light. The glass is on the table. It has been there all day. The glass is round, the table square. Light hits glass, Strikes water, Hits glass again. Colors play. All is still. Dust glows suspended in air, Each speck an angel. I would like to be an angel, too, Someday. Someday I will I will diffuse.