The Indigo Collector

A vivid, lyrical poem exploring the magical quiet transition from dusk into night

The Indigo Collector

The Indigo Collector moves without
a shadow,
slipping through the seams where afternoon unravels.
With fingers fashioned from blue silence,
he lifts the yellow blaze from the
highways skin
and rolls the horizon into a
weathered map.

His burlap sack is woven from midnight.
Into its depths he gathers
the last bright splinters of a dying sun,
the desperate amber beating beneath a
bird's wing,
the gray hush settling over five o'clock.

Where he passes, the world grows
weightless,
it's bright disguises quietly undone.
Colors surrender their borrowed names,
and every echo softens into dusk.

From his pocket he draws a silver needle,
threaded with the first breath of evening,
and stitches twilight
to the torn hems of the hills.

When his work is finished,
night does not fall--

it fits.

The stars remain only where
his needle chose to leave the fabric open,
and the moon, a worn silver thimble,
rests forgotten upon the sky.

By morning he is gone,
leaving no footprints,
only the certainty
that every shadow
is the careful seam
holding the light together.

29 Lines