
The Hour of Golden Things
Why was no one looking?
Stepping from the curb, I was blinded for a moment by a stray ray of sunshine slanting long between steel towers.
The hour of golden things had crept in and sent the light bouncing off of faces of glass and into the crevices and shadows.
It filled the dark places, illuminating spaces, tracing hope onto faces of those homeless ones, hunkered in the darkness.
I stood frozen in place, a tickle of a smile on my face.
Why was no one looking?
All around me, people jostled and talked — like that schizophrenic in the train station — to no one whom I could hear, their cell phones clutched tightly to their ears.
And then I saw her, someone’s daughter, a child of three or four, imploring her mother to slow down for a moment and watch the magic show unfold.
The mother, holding her child’s hand tightly in her own, frowned, then looked around.
And I could see that moment of delight, when true sight struck her as well.
All around us, the city glowed.
You never know what you might see in the golden hour.
But you really ought to look.

Thank you for experiencing this “Urban Moment” with me. This past summer, when visiting Oslo, I was caught in the “Golden Hour,” which, at that time of year was around 11 p.m.. I stepped off of the train and out into a magical world of light and color. I wondered, though, at the city dwellers, who walk the same route each night, their attention captured by their phones, who miss nature’s light show time and again.
I believe that to truly understand a poem, it needs to be heard. To hear the rhythm, the cadence, the emphasis, please listen to my recording of “The Hour of Golden Things.”
