Gold Rush

By Sarah

The house breathes out

The dust of yesterday. 

I watch it dancing

In the half-light. 

.

Bare feet tread on

Cloths of gold,

As tangible as 

Lingering coffee grounds. 

.

Is this the morning breath

That we are told to dream of?

Filling every corner with

The dawn’s unfettered warmth. 

.

The beams are crawling through

The spaces in the olive trees. 

The birds are calling but 

You still sleep. 

.

Your forehead – 

Kissed and golden. 

Illustration by

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