The color of wheat

Under the sun that blazes down
Your arms resting still beside me
Breezes move the hair gently,
Like rippling fields of the west
The color of wheat
Parched in the autumn sun.
The birds caw from the trees
Black birds en mass
Crows perhaps
With their taunting
They jostle each other from perch to perch
Black speck backdrop
To this world.
Blue skies turbulent
I live in this moment
This very second
This quiet day
Lazy Sundays spent waiting
For new week to arrive
Sipping the cool water
Relaxed and inspired to do
Everything or nothing,
To just sit here for a while
Listening to the trees
The shrill voice of flocks above
Waiting for the hounds to move on
So they may peck the dry ground
And I touch the softness of your arms
The color of wheat rippling
A part of you
Unchanged by time.
I close my eyes and go back in my memory,
To days on the bike
Wind in my hair
Sun in my eyes
And fields that seemed to go on forever
Another place and time
But always a part
In remembering
Beautiful days.

Photo: Wheat Field with Crows (1890).jpg. Vincent Van Gogh