Sometimes the setting sun spills across the horizon like a tilted tub of molten orange peel ice cream. 

Lap it up. Lovingly.

And everything else that overflowed with it. 

The confused moments. 

The pointless words. 

The half-framed sentences. 

The unborn thoughts. 

The suppressed sighs.

The broken dreams.

Nestlings still await your return, seeking strength through the sunless hours.

Light a lamp.

Kindle the flame.

Whatever gave light without burning itself out!