Golden

If I draw my finger
through this golden dust
it will leave no trace

no more than the shadow tracks
among the roots of voles and mice

no breath stirs the stalks
no breeze

only the languid song
of the gold-trapped oriole
reed pipes by the water
drops slow as honey
beneath the heat-heavy trees.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

5 thoughts on “Golden”

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