Goldenrods

Shoulder-high in goldenrods, my eyes filling
With the color of the field,

I am as one psychedelic, breathing in the essence
Of a miracle flower: my lungs filling

With sweet yellowness.

Eyes, lungs, quickened by the brightness of the field,

I drown in the yellowness of the dry field,
Hating the rescue sure to come.

My son saves me; calling me--

Pulling me with his strong soul
Out of the holy field.