Seventh fold

​The sun descends in quiet gold, To wrap the world in seventh fold. The frantic pulse of gain and loss, Is counted now as hollow dross; For in the cooling of the air, A different breath becomes a prayer. ​The water boils, the linens spread, A blessing breathed o’er wine and bread. The hands that hurried through the day, Now brush the lingering haste away; They strike a match, a flame is born, To heal the week that has been worn. ​It is a palace built in time, Without a wall, without a climb. We step across the evening’s hem, And leave the world to those in them— Who have not found the secret door, That leads to peace and nothing more.