WARMTH of the westering hour, who layeth a remembered fire upon a sea that does not remember. She appeareth as the wide Pacific drawn out to a horizon of rose and ash, the water below run to a cold and uncaring blue while one low stack stands among the swell with its crown ignited, the lesser rocks fading northward into haze; in the near bluff the foliage burns and tumbles toward the tide. Her office is to gild what is indifferent, to lend the salt waste the color of an ending warmth, that the cold be made bearable and the grandeur be made tender. She rules the threshold where the light is given and the day takes it back. Look long, and the sea forgets you; look longer, and the gold remains.
The words above arrive with your print, pressed onto fine-art card.
