August Gold-rush

Cold is the gold in coffers

Of miser, merchant-throng

But gold that nature offers

Fills pauper-bards with song

The gold of sun-flow’r beaming

Of black-eyed Susan’s hair

Of wheat-field oceans gleaming

With farmer’s answered prayer

Of sun-sparkle on water

Of morning waking up 

Of summer’s yellow laughter

Caught in a butter-cup

The gold of early autumn

Soft teases walnut-tress

And scatters to the garden

Gold tatters from her dress

The orchard tree is lowered

Gold-bent with fruit of bloom

Where pear and apple-lovers

Wander from room to room

The glint of noon through arbors

Of maple-canopy

The hint of Soon September

The moon on midnight’s sea

The doorway to dusk meadow

The dust of August heat

Dripping with peach-sweet nectar

And dash of sun-kissed feet

The vault that spills with treasure

Of sky and sea and sod

No human hand can garner

For these belong to God

…ah, cold is the gold in coffers

Of miser, merchant, king

But gold that nature offers

Makes bards and paupers sing

© Janet Martin