Gold

Soft sirens
gently warn
of a coming
thunderstorm

and the sky
she calms
cools
wraps her wind around me
asks me
not to go

but i owe
little
and i grow
brittle
bones that
aren’t made
for this earth
or for words -
slow hand-grenades
you throw

but at least i have my jacket
and yes, she’s a rainstorm,
a bow to the wind worn
and a farewell to the mellow
with a heart as soft as yellow

gold.