Grey shadows were the platforms from which summer petals sang full bright.
Shadows make their playful dance, telling stories of leaves in buoyant breeze.
Shadows of the morn and eventide come as patient clocks in the serendipitous day.
A shadow is but messenger that the sun doth shine.
All shadows may do is mute colours, soften the volume of the daytime orchestra. Shadows are a guest, dependant upon the shining sun, a passing memento to become nothing at all under the starlit night. So though shadows come as if part of a natural clock, in truth they tell more of golden rays than darkness.
There are times shadows are so welcome, a chance to dwell in diffuse rays, to rest. There are times that kiss of cold air is a salve, for it beckons me to sit, to revive what needs quiet solitude. In those sweet puddles of calmness, in the colours of a sunset lullaby, I let everything that I am connect with the surface of the Earth below. I let my eyes see how close the sun is, how, even if I only rest here, it will come to me with all strength and brilliance.