We drove the old Studebaker,
a rusting sky blue, hard through
the ripe and shimmering
across the endless acres,
stalks golden almost to translucence
against the thick blue sky.
We didn’t see the riverbed and crashed
headlong into the shallow current.
We stalled out and spilled
onto the smooth, cool stones
and let the water flow around us
as we laughed, and then all turned silent.
The smell of clover pollen and
the river’s glacial silt, heat from my
head across your chest, the chill
of the river rocks, the rough dust
of wheat chaff on the skin,
a staggering haze of sunlight.
Fresh and unfocused, but powerful -
The daydream of life swallowed us whole.
Soon we started up the car again
and raced up the bank and back
home, the wheat purple and
orange in the twilight.
In the darkness then we watched
with horror, my fingers running
the rough strands of your long dark hair,
as your dad tended to the tractor engine.
Fall was coming, and in it that ancient
bit of wild knowledge,
which we often forget,
that all things must fade away at last.