Victoria Field

Heading Home

Sun’s igniting the last leaves so they flame
then fade quickly as snowflakes.
Sodden fields hold light for longer,
drink it in, so sheep float on dense green light.
This light knows no limit—passing creeks catch it too
turn to beaten glitter, mirror the steel gleam of sky.
On the train we sit, read, talk, eat in a moving,
blinking river of light. Children hold gold light
in their hair, release light with their laughter.
Some crazy Midas can’t help himself—
caresses everything uncontrollably,
so wind is light, trees are light,
the glance from the woman opposite is light.
We’ve caught it somehow from the small dust
on my screen, the spaces between trees—
all of us, heading west into the flame of the sun
dizzy, alive, touched by brief winter light.
                                             Victoria Field