Poem by Lyndsie L. Conklin 

Skylights, dressed in orange,
reach for her twilight lover.
His eyes reflect the small joy
of her cheek, the smallest epic
of feeling; a tragedy.

They dance–the pink gray clouds
become the only flowing evidence
of their rehearsed waltz.

Her dress flows across the sky
and burns ever brighter
as their dance climaxes. His dusk
coattails mix with her burning drapes.

They spin and spin until their feet
cannot carry them. They rest
atop a mountain, colors dangle
in motionless sprawl. Her orange glow
fades wary and he stands alone, black
in the evening shadow. Yet little embers
sprinkle across the floor,
reminding him where her foot
had once followed him.