My daughter’s eyes descend
like the sun. Sometimes,
they settle softly
and whisper
into the gloaming.
But most times,
dusk is met
with an explosion,
a tumult of crimson and clementine
cries against the night.

I haven’t seen the sun
set in many moons,
or raised a glass to toast
this golden, happy hour,
traded for the witching.
But there is as much
hackneyed beauty
and mortal melancholy
between us here,
rocking, crooning, cajoling
in a dark room,
than under the ruby haze.

There is as much
humble magic in her eyes
as in the most radiant star
sinking into a blazing sea.
And when she suckles slowly to sleep,
reaching her palm
to caress my face,
or wraps her infant fist
around my finger,
it is no less magnificent.