I’m unsure if patience is golden.

I imagine sometimes it changes colour half-

-way, like a tiger’s eye, or else shifts

As a cloud over distant fields shifts shadows.

Just imagine the rhythm of patience. It rises

As only a tide can, and so falls to Majorelle blue.


For all the will, there wouldn’t be a day whose

Want for joy was truly gold in hue.

Of this I am unsure. But this I know:

There’s something called golden. I heard it.

It was startling soft, and pleasant through, and


It met me half-way, and I knew.


For Ed and Laura


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