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,
I watch the field stand
Silent beauty in its mourning
As the babe suckles my breast.