Wheat, sun, honey, gold, light, amber: these are the words held in the amber of memory. They stir in dreams of wheat swaying in bright and attic light. They rustle on slow dialed days as the sun glories down like golden bees humming of honey, those days held in the honeycomb of life's bright amber, days of our making but out of a time of gold, when all is seen as abundant wheat, as sun and summer light. And we are like those bees lighting in time's honey, drinking the nectar of life's harvest, suddened into joy as the sun quickens in winter, as amber charges the touch, as wind-whipped wheat sweeps our sight, and gold sets our lusts in shimmered gold-flecked light falling on wheat, on the honeyed sheaves rising under an amber sun. And then when that sun glows like gold and electrumed amber, when it throbs with the light's rhythmed waves, who could refuse the dense, darkling honey of love, or loaves made from the thrusting wheat? Who could allow the sun's canticles or the choiring wheat eclipse? Not even age can debase such gold, for lost light always glows in the ambered hold of Time's honey.