It’s been a long day, and you’re losing light
faster now, the days shortening long
before you’re ready,

and at the busy intersection where it always
takes longer than you like for the light
to go green, you look beyond

what’s in front of you—that piercing red
taillight—and note the curving arrow
pointing the way, as it always does,

and above it—can it be?—the day’s
last light through a heart framed by
trees, and you think,

No way. But there it is, and as you
drive slowly through the intersection,
your eyes affixed on that heart,

it does not move until you have to
turn the wheel slightly to the left,
and then it disappears

into curving branches and darkening
leaves, many of which will fall any day
now. There is more

to lose than light—
you feel it coming—but you
decide to accept the gift,

to take the love shining at you,
and thank those in the illumination
department for their excellent work,

as you keep driving west
toward home,
always into the light.