There is a time
every day
when the world seems to spin gold.
Each breath we take is currency
each glimpse into the
face of sunset
costs.
I travel home
and weave the gold of my hair
into small squares
that hold that sun spun time.
Still and warm.
Captive and wild.
In my hand rests a
measurement
of daylight past
slow tender slants
falling East
and we murmur
down below
about the long shadows cast
about the rising chill.
We wrap our arms about ourselves
and fade into night.