East at Sunset

I can't remember the last time
I had time to read without the racket
Of worry and hospital silence. I've forgotten
How the sun sets, how it explodes the sky
In a tapestry of brazen oranges and golds, bronzes
And warm crimsons, then lulls itself into soft pinks
That aren't sure they should be. I've missed
A century of these sunsets, a century of being.
Too caught up in sorting myself out, in
Making myself a mystery so that not even I
Know what happens next. Sunsets require
No calculation, no planning, no three-hour
Surgeries. Sunsets are simple. They need no language,
Save themselves, yet inspire language beyond understanding.
Sunsets are simple. I want to be simple.