Once there was a moment
                that came with a long, iridescent blaze.
                It kept us moving. It made each hour a newborn
                                         shiny and fat with promise.

One can still go out into the fields
                                         and find leftover strips of the blaze.
                They appear like crimson tails torn from dragons,
                                              fires doused by watery ends.

It is still beautiful to look upon the path
            but often the memory seems more real than the present.
What follows looks faded and washed down
                                       against the brassy dazzle of the first.