I pin my wash in silvered light
to soft chorale of laughing leaves,
the twittering of sparrows back,
this golden hour I receive.
A palmful of sun to stroke my face,
an open bottle to hold the sky,
a blazed footpath to find the way,
to awake and quicken, not ossify.
Though golden light can’t fill my pockets,
and drifting clouds won’t dust away
the squalls that slap at tender skin,
leave feelings brushed with tints of gray.
When gold is lost and shadows nigh
I carry close that bottle of sky.
© 2022 Nancy Sobanik