"Twilight" a poem by Leslie Pressley

The hue of the expansion of the aloft
indigo bliss, where even the fowl fly too low
for fear of surrender to the boundless infinity,
they retreat to the trees as they bend to the wind
and rest on limbs as arms of strength
for comfort and their serenity.

As the composure of the land lies at twilight's final breath
and eventide flows and harmony is heard,
a rhythm of obscurity moves through the draft,
somnolence drifts among the growth
and a solemn hush lingers through the petals.

The frondescence, flourishing by the Maker's hand
the allurement of a flower, who could fabricate this design?
Artistry in your words, lucid to you my Lord,
confounded am I, perplexed and astonished by your works
to convey creation and it is done by Your word.

Gazing upward, the horizon merges with vibrancy,
yellows blend fluently with sapphire stratosphere
swirling into the distance, endless sea of sky
where heaven meets this celestial sphere.

Delicacy in your details, brilliance in even the tiniest leaf,
painted with your thought, spoken to be,
such careful ponder over such beauty,
such care that I would see.

You, my Creator, Master of all, will care for the tiny bird
who glides in Your painting above,
who makes the fowl free to soar into the vastness,
who makes me free with His love.