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