The Golden Boy

hooves
upon hard pack gravel
spoke beauty
in time-scape

the fruit boxes
all in toss and stain worn
coloured the grey
of no match.

the loveliness
of the Mexican bride,

of her smile,
in the window of the rusted truck,
asking directions
from the Pennsylvania Dutch
went far beyond
digital ability

and painted the desert

of Kentucky gloom.

a thousand images
in a single frame
and yet-
it was the boy, always the boy,
the boy
with the strawberry-blonde
twist
and the smile
of a thousand golden joys
turned back, looking
over the buckboard
that froze time
and rendered hearts
useless
in the glory
of harvest nuance.

~rick