Golden Hour

Photo by Jeffrey Clayton on Unsplash

A Poem by Bethany Colas

Sometimes, I find it 

easy to believe the hope 

of all I hold dear hinges 

on these human 

institutions imbued 

with power we, 

the people, 

have given them;

easier still, 

to feel despair 

when standing 

at the edge 

of a widening rift, 

the depth of which 

we do not know,

shielded, as it is,

by our hands,

covering our 

ears and then 

our eyes, 

until the golden 

hour washes 

over these blooming 

cherry trees, 

the gentle warmth 

of waning sun, 

tending to our 

bruised but beating 

hearts, as if to say, 

there is healing here,

as if to say 

this golden hour

comes and will keep 

coming not just once, 

but twice a day, and by 

the soft and slanting 

liquid light and with 

its shining threads 

we can mend 

what’s torn, 

or trust 

that if a rending 

is required, 

it will let the light 

seep in to fill 

the fraying fabric

or illuminate 

the deep divide,

and make a way for us

to see ourselves 

and know each other

once again.

Bethany Colas is a poet, military spouse, and mother of three who currently resides in the suburbs of Connecticut. When Bethany's not writing poems in the margins of her days, she can be found reading mystery novels from the Golden Age era and drinking tea. Her poems have been published in Ekstasis Magazine, The Rabbit Room Poetry Substack, Calla Press, Clayjar Review, and The Way Back to Ourselves. She also belongs to the fellowship of writers at Cultivating Oaks Press.