A field of wheat beams a warming glow,
mirrored image of a sun sat low.
Dancing, laughing, calmly calling
the cooling shadows of evening drawing.
An early moon creeps slowly higher
as if to grasp the warming fire.
Chasing vainly never to hold
the ancient ever reborn soul.
As if in spite his darkness follows,
the light and warmth of day are swallowed.
He shines with glee at his earth's grasp.
The fields of wheat bow to him at last.
Now at his peak he must remember;
all he holds he must surrender.
For sure as night has stolen day
the sun again will have his way.
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Author Notes
Just a little piece I jotted down after a sunset a long time ago. Found it in some old papers, thought I'd share.
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