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This thing remembered—
tendrilled wisps of amber
groomed from sweaty plough blades
of Nebraska soil, waves breaking
the black earth into gold flames
ripening in air, rich with mirrors.
“It’s only wheat”,
she said,
“Just big dumb fields
of nothing but wheat”,
said
this harvest from my
loins, tawny fingers weaving
strands of sun-bleached
tasseled hair, face
flecked with straw
glistening
her bright smile,
her star rising.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, July 21, 2016 — by Ben Rasnic
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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