Driving through
the downward dance
of the yellow leaves
of the Bradford pears.
Sunlight warming
the day to 75 degrees.
Saying yes this time
to the honey
mustard on the sandwich.
The tang
of a tangerine
and its incense
on my fingers.
Having studied Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem "Spring and Fall" at a time when the clay of memory was soft and easy for poems to press themselves into.
What was gold in your day?
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