Identify at once
The words jumble in my throat
Retribution shock
Governing by my ticking clocks
Spewing wind to fill the sails

Empty boats
Floating down
Glinding along gilded banks
Wheat can seldom feed a soul
Only bloat the burdend mind

How does the horizion break?
When did all my buds bloom
Long into the night
And slowly wither away
But never die

Change is mine
And when it comes to me
My will I cannot abide
There will be no sacrifice
I live my life by the dimmest light

The words I could speak
To blow it out
Flowing over the tip of my tounge
But Seldom ever spoken
Silence is golden

And the danger may be closer than it appears
And you'll never know if the end is near
And the ones i loved, cherished and relied most heavily upon
Can slip god through my viens...

And yet the new ones
The immitators I've neglected
Seldom speak to me, irony a bitter curse

And up untill this day, and onwards down the current
the words still escape me

While most people are familiar with
the principle of ‘sowing and reaping’,
it can be difficult to distinguish
between Fact and Fiction; gleaning

the Truth sometimes takes time, so
that the authentic and the fake can…
be properly separated. Sad jealousies
are found when the evil works of Man

bloom against the stark contrast of
God’s reality; seeing the good and bad,
subtly reinforces our understanding of
the wheat and tares; let us be glad,

in knowing how God divinely operates;
in Him, we can move and have our being
when our Faith is extended on behalf
of His Kingdom; when we are agreeing

with His Word, it’s easier to love and
care for others regularly, as we must;
will people observe us as His Children,
if we’re not placing in God… our trust?

Wheat crop shines

plenty of water in canal

starvation disappears

It’s the color of the sun
The one with rays that beat down
And warms your skin on a bright
Summer day.

It’s the daisy garden,
The one just outside your front door;
It’s scent, so fresh and sweet
Fills your nostrils with the smell of summer.

And the sweet, sharp wheat
The ones that make you sneeze
And yet you can’t help
But drag your fingers lightly against their flesh
And take in their musty scent.

Or the shutters of your neighbor’s cottage,
The ones with the soft pastel that stands out among
The white siding
And the pale door

It’s the bow in your daughter’s hair,
The one that she fought
But you insisted,
Because it’s beautiful
The way she looks in that hue.

And it’s the color of your happiness,
The one that shows through the bright smile
That stretches across your face
And bleeds golden joy.

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

Your eyes where the color of summer wheat grass
They promised a hot, hazy summer
And reminded of life brought to it by the spring
Like brushing my fingertips across the wheat grass
My eyes sweeping yours
Let me feel everything that you where
Are now
And like a seed in the wind
Everything that we could be together.

I first saw the wheat in the morning,
smelled the wind blustering forth--
Wondered that it must taste like
that very morning, in what complex way crops do.

And when the bear-locusts eat them,
what they would say
if they bled pans of gold to romance their amber,
if only then
would they be jubilant
if only on their death beds!

"Don't admire the fields," says Agricoltore.
Why?
"Because they like--they don't change."

Sunflowers in the sun
feeding from the light
like a golden watercolour painting
Field mice nibbling
Bees buzzing
Coming out to play
In the middle of a wheat field
Turned over
looking up at the dust particles that fill the sky
Oh how wonderful it would be to become a mole
Or fly.