I once knew where to find gold,
at the edge of the hayfield,
a hidden pot where the light held.
Summer scorched wild across fifteen acres,
cattails bursting with their jovial laughter along the ditch,
rolling hills freckled with cattle grazing the browning alfalfa,
a barn cat lazing into noontime shade,
tractors turning bales through billowing dust
that rose like the blooming day itself.
Somewhere past the ridge was gold.
A rainbow marking its claim there,
colour burning through August rain,
always just ahead,
just beyond the purple rise.
I followed its invitation,
its end not far away.
But it melted,
the way light does,
luring me into the dim of the log house,
into candleglow and indigo dusk,
where the world lost its wonder
and innocence loosened its grip.
Rainbows smeared to memory,
smudged at the edges,
almost there.
I once knew where to find gold.
I can still see the field.