I Speak Gold

to be released in my upcoming volume: Mincing Words with Whitman.

I speak green
in the morning
and the day turns
a shade newer –
beyond when I
had spoken brown.

The mind turns
on the hues given
by the meaning
of the day.

The heart turns,
too on the impression
set before it -
dazzled and bejeweled
by the spoken-ness
of a thing and it's
palette of interpretation
and display.

In the early morning
pink-en-ing fog

the clouds,

they look
like mountains. They
speak my morning
into an illusory
sense
that gives me pause
to wonder what
else I may have
misconstrued - one thing

for another.

How ambient
the greening spring

and the slow rusting
movement of time
over the surface
of each leaf;

rippling endlessly
and lithely over mountains'
crenulations and valleys'
sweeping downward pull.

It all moves
toward one end;
it hangs on one
endless yearning.
It awaits that
one day,

when in the morning
I no longer speak
yellows, and oranges,
and reds.

On that day,
that one day
that spans a new and
 burgeoning aeon,
I speak gold
into the morning
and every single thing
changes - every thing.

Atoms are aglow with
a fire-building translucence
of amber burning yellow.

Ochres of vibrating
scintillators swim
into my soul through
my eyes. I feel
a gladness swell
in me that is
lost between nobility
and mirth. Walking
along the river path
enshrouded in golden
leaves –

a tunnel of light –
boring through
time in an endless
appearance of
the now.

This gold cannot last,
Walt. Robert
told us so. It is
here in earth-time
an hour at most.

But, while here,
it is pulling in gulps
of autumn light

dragging them to
the ground.

Gulps and gulps of
light line the path
and rattle as I shuffle
my way through them
in rapt conclusion.

This is where the
indolent sun
burns itself
upon the gorgeous
floods of
yellow gold.

I speak gold
and give it voice
in the air
for one
eternal
instant,

for one
eternal
now.