In this, most Ruisdael, fading sunlight, everything is gold,
And, yet, it's also dross. My son, his wife, and two small
Children dine, not in our dining room, but in the living room,
In which they watch insipid television. In the morning, I will
Gather up the dreadful mess they've made. The thought
Of being done at last, an honored elder, placid, idle, doesn't
Fit my circumstances. I must labor on, indentured, even
In the home I own. The Ruisdael tableau pleases briefly,
But the exigencies of a life in a too-crowded house erase
The golden light, the fields, and leave me in the blackest
Darkness, groping for a knob, a door, a way I might escape.