Golden And So Pure Poem by James McLain

How ever that it is the best remains.
Turning to the front I face the rear.
You rejoice I speak of compromise,
the moon above perhaps.

Shaking joy and dictation of.
The voice that whispers it is done.
A second time, from whence it came?
The value of such love.
Falling golden and so pure, I sit still.

Pungent is the smell of coming rains.
Rain that is the air of yellow spring.
This summer it is long, it is green.
Where summer goes, competes with fall.
And winter never came, until you did.