Golden Hour

The End of a Perfect Day

The sun pools like honey on the porch boards,
and my dog’s tail makes lazy circles in the dust.
Everything is finished — the dishes done,
the garden watered, even the bills paid.
There’s nothing left but this moment,
stretching out like a cat in the last light.

My neighbor’s wind chimes speak in tongues
of brass and silver, translating the breeze
into something holy. Even the mosquitoes
seem to respect this peace, keeping their distance
as if they too understand: some moments
are too perfect to disturb.

I’ve spent so many years chasing endings,
trying to wrap up each day with a bow,
but now I know — the best endings
arrive like shy animals, uncoaxed,
when you’re already complete,
already whole, already home.

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