field

the pretty home, I call my own
sits amidst a meadow of goldenrod
winding rows of gamboge and saffron
where I take my thoughts, black
as coffee, and bury them deep
in the mud of the creek bed.
the serene creek, in which I lay
leads to a river bend and a lake
cerulean and still, though I think I can hear
the movement of a thousand gills
just beneath the surface.
the reddened moon, that lights our field
is neither a harbinger of a healthy crop
or an omen, but a taste of royalty,
on parched lips.