Earthen, is what makes it so,
Through waking moments vertigo,
This drive which makes the day begin
Through early morning stumbleing,

To run the clods of rich, black soil
Through fingers, roughened by my toil,
To gaze with pride across this field
Of furrows deeply ploughed, to yeild.

Here, my quintessential joy
To smile as golden grain deploys
To emerald shoots, in morning light,
By row for harvesting, when right.

For earthen, is what makes it so,
By morning's warm and pleasant glow,
Standing midst my field of wheat
Enriches soul, to make complete.

M.