Late afternoon is the time I would choose:
shadows steeped deep and purple, the lake
mauve—the very air mauve—a  shade of ache
like the sky blooming its own demise.				
When I die, let it be late July, humid blur
of leaves starry with pollen, no wind
to stir the origami of green, the blind 
folds listless in the light’s last fat golden pour.

Rebecca Foust has died. In and out of her time,
she longed to arc meteor, loom large with myth
—and fell short. Only One-Great-Book shy 
of epic she entered the dirt, her last, best rhyme
made flesh in her own issue; a skeptic
of the language of living, and its aftermath.