The wheat we'd planted grew the summer through
Wind and rain and sun all came and just the same
The sprouted kernels rooted down, sky-blued up
Sun's warmth, clouds' rain, wind and calm came

July brought ripening fields turning gold
"Still too early," my father told us as we gazed
Then a week before August, our old truck rolled
And stopped beside bearded fields now hazed

By coming autumn dust. Our father strode into the rows
Snapped off three heads and felt the beards,
Crushed them as his millstone-hands rolled,
Then paused to see the produce of the year.

Phwwww! He blew. Hulls and beards flew down,
Left hard red berries cupped shallow in his old hands
Threw several seeds between his teeth and ground
We heard them cracking, forming gum.

"It's time," he said, and Harvest had begun.

This is the blind fruit, the fruit of rage,
The hurled epithet, the torn page;
Destruction in a second destroys the tree,
Leaves the rager empty...and grieving.

The sword tip pierces the tapestry,
The old man falling, "Help! Help!" entreats.
The quick penned death note sent with fools,
England's death unleashed on broken tools.

Love foresworn, too much Ophelia pined;
Drowned she her sorrows, Hamlet’s love denied.
Here’s rosemary; here's for remembrance.
And we who've seen these scenes so many times
Remember everything.

Has come and done his very worst.
She's gone and isn't coming back,
And all her things, though not at first,
Will leave this dry old place as we unpack
Her dishes and her books, her pretty things
That kept her grand kids from her place
And gathered dust on shelves and every open space.

I wonder now
Did Job's wife speak
The Devil's words,
"Curse God and die"?

Was Job's test the culmination,
The diabolical, canny ending,
The checkmate of temptation
To end the human nation?

"Curse God and Die."
These words give thinkers chills.
The brutal question, "Why?"
Faith-stifling word that kills.

Job's friends, his wife, his circumstance,
Combined his wounds to salt;
In misery, he sought the Lord, to stand,
And prove his misery was not his fault.

Job knelt before the Lord at last,
In yielding he found life;
For him, the test was passed;
But what about Job's wife?

Is the death of hope
The dying sigh Of freedom
Dying weekends
Expire in twilight
No one to speak My name to say
Everything will be
Okay.

Watched the Lord come to the garden.
Heard the Voice call softly, “Adam.”
In anticipation, licked his lips,
Felt shivers in his snake-ish hips.

Still no movement from the bushes;
Human forms still held their breath;
Chortling serpent, breathless, waited
In the garden where came death.