I
duck into tree light
while this red earth field,
seven years ripe,
germinates small answers
to questions hard planted.
You,
Shroud in silence,
drink the silver night air
while the elusive slips
silently by.
We
stand sky-high
weaving through
grain threshed
wind swept fields.
Suddenly,
awakened by the capacious star's
rising yellow ardor,
verdant implants of dewy life
lift skyward and scatter untrodden roots.