|Thirty-two's a slowly ripening field,|
Hot and happy in the summer sun.
Intense and long, the days are filled with light.
Reason knows that past the blue is night,
That all that ever is will be undone;
Yet for now that letter is still sealed.
Time moves slowly, certain of its yield,
While gentle breezes through the barley run.
Odd wisps of memories float high and white.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon