Golden

In the trackless fields of yellow grass,
the child is one with the sun.
In the humid, heavy air,
where music of bees and flies
fills the distance with soft wings.

Alone, the child wanders,
in the density of the moment,
under the apple tree,
its crispness glowing
like the true color of light.

Here, thistle scents swirl,
whorls of secret beneath leaves,
fallen branches in brown shadow,
where rabbits peer from tireless dreams,
and distant thunderheads loom, black.

The child passes by,
the way marked in their memory,
through head-high grass,
where everything is unknown,
yet known in the tender embrace of now.

They must have passed many times,
in circles of soft laughter,
where remnants of the past
linger in the air,
like roots weaving through forgotten springs.

So much space below,
as night rises, pale and wise,
fluttering wings whispering,
an old trick of the heart,
lose in this solemn vigil.

And there, in that light,
the child finds themselves,
among the echoes of apple trees,
and the grace of the world,
so still, yet so alive.