This is the blue hour,
The weak, quivering glow
of an exhausted sun
when the day is done.
This is the hour that's darker than night,
when shadows form in the blue-gray light,
and the back-lit
shift like shadows
when the sun has set.
It's the frail blue glow as a candle dies,
pressing in against the eyes:
a lone smudge of blue in a smoke-gray room
It's a memory lost for many years,
the sleep that falls with falling tears,
the last heard echo off a far away wall,
almost more silent than no sound at all.
It's the haze that forms on a placid lake,
The gossamer thread between sleep and wake.
This is the last hour,
the very last light,
the hour before sunset
turns to night.
—Talie Tebbi, Brooklyn, NY