Golden Years

by Amy Brian

You walk slowly

As we go down the road. 

Mist flicks our cheeks,

One thousand tears in the air. 

Your boots drag against the gravel, 

Punctuating each step we take. 

Pebbles scamper, making blissful declarations: 

Pop, pop, pop. 

The wind gives us his hello; 

Its rhythm can be seen in the flapping trees. 

His cordiality becomes the world’s silent metronome.

Tick, tick, tick. 

The corn is soldiers standing alongside us, 

Alert and protective. 

They shed green for gold–

Youth for ripe worth.

Suddenly you cut the fabric 

Of the moment with words. 

I hear it tear. 

Rip, rip, rip. 

Winter is almost upon us, you say. 

Or we are soon upon it. 

Either way, it comes on soft, forbidding feet. 

Yes, I nod. 

You speak again suddenly:

But we shall take it. 

Your boots drag less now. 

They rise. 

They no longer cause pebbles to dance. 

We too shall rise, I think. 

My soul, leaping to convert the solider within, 

Turns from green to gold. 

Rise to winter. 

Rise to ourselves. 

Rise to our golden years.

Rise, rise, rise. 

Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student