All I can see is the way the sun hits your face,
the way it falls onto the field--
your weary lean resisting the way of the grass
in the wind,
bucket to hips
as your skirt races against your feet,
hair blown into a tuft against your face
as you turn to smile
against a great shield of white.

It is richer to remember colors;
the sky a shade of orange, pink along the horizon,
the grass maybe washed in gold

as the sun sets.
It starts at the ends of your hair
and moves in to your cheeks,
working its way around you
as it wraps you in light,
draws you into the sky.

It molds you into the archives of a past
grandmother,
your cast looming outside the window,
faded to sepia
and buried by roads,
grey asphalt stetching into nowhere.

Today I found you
as you fell through a stack of albums
and placed you back between the stained adhesives and laminated strips.
Your rusted sunset spilled over you
in a protest against time.