Harvest

In the gloaming, you are grainy -

less like woodwork and

more like wheat.

You lull, and list, and luff, like seafields

fallow before frisked by my machines.

Yours is the smell of the midwest

- in the dusk of summer -

made manifest for the attempted harvest;

and oh, what seven years' famine

is carved by the sharpest scythe.

This spade, this plow, this pen, presumptuous

inventions, pretend to lend their edges

to a vain endeavor -

And still you lie like tender fields untamed;

I can only grasp you grain by grain.

~9/30/10