Wheatfield
Isn’t flesh as strong as wheat,
born singing its own gnostic song?
The field prays and the earth answers
in the same voice.
Smuts kill its blades, sun freshens,
but the sea of grass goes on
waving in the wild prairie storms,
leaning blade on blade
from horizon to horizon;
and so we all.
March 2011
Posted for Friday Flash Fiction 55 at the G-Man's
Image: Wheatfield with Cypresses, Vincent Van Gogh, Oil on Canvas, 1889
courtesy wikimedia commons
