Gold sunlight falls upon the faded couch
until a shadow, sharp and black, begins
it cuts across my threadbare, faded dress
a light pine green, and hemmed with silver pins.
The golden sunlight melts upon the walls
and ticks on through the white and empty halls
Gold glitters in the warm, immobile air
above the carpet and upon the stair.
Gold slides down stairs I rode down as a child.
It makes old songs seem sweet, old mem’ries mild.
Gold runs through fields I ran when I was young
and leaves there wildflowers and the sun.
Now here I am and gold keeps ticking on
yet leaves behind now neither joy nor song.
For now I find sweet darkness is respite
from the abyss, monotonous and white.
Mid-Morning in a white and empty flat
I stare at the old chair where once you sat.
The garden, through the window’s from a dream
the silence makes the air like heavy cream.
Yes, gold was here on summer afternoons
in fireflies, caught by the light of moons
on backyard wooden tables, in the heat
when every summer day was long and sweet.
It covered books like dust upon their shelves
and made to live there fairy queens and elves.
It hung about the Christmas tree at night
and shone through windows with a golden light.
Now there’s no sound. There’s no one at the door.
Yes, it was golden here. It is no more.