Golden Poem by Joyce Chelmo

I was thinking about
how I love the way
a wheat field looks
when the wind blows;
like waves on a golden sea.

When a stranger passed,
I watched him slide down
the street.

He was slender, not very tall,
holding some papers close
to his plain white t-shirt.
He wore baggy jeans,
and white running shoes.

His head was shaved
but I could tell he was blonde
and he had ageless features.

He reminded me of a poet I know.

His ice blue eyes darted from
side to side,
he didn’t turn his head.
He looked frightened
and his steps were quick.

As the sun passed over my house,
and the summer dwellers started
darting around like nervous squirrels,
I went back to thinking about golden fields.