Sounds
The way wheat whispers
as it is poured
from basket to basket,
or reaper to wagon
to bin to truck,
always the soosh of it,
lullaby for hunger,
making it sleep
and dream of wind
pushing almost silent
through the tall fields
of spring grain,
the early harvest,
brief whirl beneath
the hill as if two
lovers stirred there
after losing themselves
just as the green
from the tallest stalk
drains into the brown
promise...
tasting,
tasting the sweet bread
of it, until memory
alone can recall.