Seeds

                                                                                                                                                               …

It is harvest time and the golden berries

Ripe and trembling

Shiver under their skin

As the heat-laden breeze

Rushes over them, past them.

                                                                                                                                                          …

The rustling of the swaying stalks

Sound too busy now as the seeds

Dry them up, empty them

Under the wind’s constant pressure

Slow and unstoppable

Waiting for the final cut and thresh,

                                                                                                                                                                                    …

                                                                                                                                                                                    …

The separating.

                                                                                                                                                                                   …

                                                                                                                                                                                   …

I watch the field stand

Silent beauty in its mourning

As the babe suckles my breast.