The Alchemic Hue

A sonnet

Olive Trees with yellow sky and sun, Vincent van Gogh

  And so these long days shift. Shadows slowly 
Change their angles. The westering sun, gold 
And burning, sinks toward the sea, lowly 
In its attitude, like a humble old 
Pilgrim near the end of his long wandering, 
Bent beneath the weight of wisdom gleaned 
From all his journeying and pondering 
On what he's done (and not done), heard, and seen. 
This is the season of alchemic hue; 
The days begin to shorten and grow cold, 
And we feel that what the poet said is true: 
Gold really is the hardest hue to hold. 
   But still we try and, like the pilgrim bent, 
   Are weighted by the goodness God has sent.