When I am alone and need connection,
I head to my garden at twilight,
“the gloaming” my Irish ancestors would
have called it, a time when the sun
is setting and light’s rays seek a place
on this green patch of earth before
the sky goes completely dark. It is a time
when creatures are on the move, birds call
each other back to their nests, squirrels
gather what they need before dashing
into the big oak. Mosquitos rise
out of the damp grass and hover
as I water flowers whose colors deepen
in the almost-dark. A slice of sun slants low
across the lawn where white hydrangea blooms
float like cumulus puffs.
I feel my mother at my elbow, reminding me
to tread softly, to mind caterpillars spinning
their protective cloaks of transformation,
and I feel the cloud of witnesses of which
she is a part, the ancestors who preceded us.
I know I am not alone, that I have a place
in this long line of women— grandmothers,
aunts, going back generation after generation
to their own green and verdant land.
Someday it will be time to join them, 
but not tonight. I sing their song 
and mine as the sun drops down
and we are plunged into darkness. I rest
in an actual slice of light that holds us
together in this deep well of time.