Golden Hour

A poem for the sun

Golden Hour, they call it. Streaks of sunlight soft and low. There’s just something so ethereal about the way even darkness can glow. I don’t know how it does it, and yet it does it well. It adds an extra layer to life, making everything in its path swell.

An already 3D world is this, and yet when the sun strikes it just right, it lifts the planet out of the page and lures it into the light. Giving life an extra dimension, projected outwards and grazing space. There’s nothing alive more beautiful than watching golden rainfalls brush your face.

Sixty minutes the world’s on fire for. Like a spotlight bleeding into the shade. Maybe it’s because even the shadows breathe warmth in the hour where evening is made. Golden Hour, they call it. But nobody mentions the silvery moon. Next up on stage, the final act of the night, making our planetary audience swoon.

Because the beauty of life doesn’t belong just to us. If anything it’s merely on loan. It’s in what lies above, in the fabric of space, in every moment, it’s every star sewn.