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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