The Golden Hour

the face full of flowers
and the sacred gloves
it is the wishing hour
of the smoke ring dove

the background is blue
the stem a spring green
hand lights match
the candle begins to dream

I look past the lines
and seam of 'could be'
knowing it
holding it
riding the sea

of an oiled painting wave
that sleeps, just for me.
and crashes on the hour
of a bygone dream

whom do you listen to
when these moments turn gray
who has the words?
the silvered array?

the fire man smolders
and I'm holding my page
What is meant to burn
.
.
.
...golden...
.
.
.
I obey