Another Time ©

I was raised in northern Montana,
where in late summer there was a golden glow in the air,
cast by the evening sun.
The air had a smell of the wheat harvest.
It was a time for reflection.
It was....
When the day is done,
amber hues of light fall softly on the hills.
My repose is sweet.
The hurry of the ending day hangs in the air,
as a wisp of fleeting warmth brushes my face.
Briefly, a glance through my mind's eye sees another time.
Perhaps it was only yesterday or maybe a lifetime ago.
It etched a mark upon my soul,
forever in my mind,
to wait 'til another day to grasp what has
gently slipped away.