Golden

The whispering wind,

constant or fleeting,

brands the mind

with an enduring correction,

continued by time.

To walk slowly.

Warm rays of sun.

Grasses held

in their own gold.

To breathe deeply.

The circle, they say,

worked into

the everyday.

To roam graciously.

Persistence and pride

carry us

far and wide.

A glimpse of something

grand—

golden, almost bliss.

Then shift.