Yesterday’s taste of snow is nowhere in sight.
Only its cold remains, and its clouds, riding the wind.
At the field’s edge a row of weathered goldenrod bobs
like the old men who gather for coffee and gossip
at the town’s cafe at seven o’clock every morning.
Did you hear about Elmer and the row he got into?
You can’t really blame him, though. That’s right.
I would have done the same thing myself–or worse!
They tell their rambling stories and haul out
old jokes, and laughter dances with their clanking
spoons, and then, for a moment they grow still,
memories floating behind their lowered eyes,
They lick sticky glaze from their fingers
and drips of coffee from the sides of their cups.
Then one of them says the keyword from the joke
that had them laughing before, and they start
all over again, nodding and remembering the days
when they were still golden, and content
in the gold of the now,