The tall sheaves are leaning

on a lake of golden earth.

Still sunny a summer
drags all sounds on time-delay.

Pensive you walk in the shade,

with the same words forbidden,
and your restive voice
whispers exhausted syllables.

As I behold you, swaying in light,

turning aflame against the sky,

you don’t ask, atop the trail,

that I teil you where it leads.

01-12-2011