The wheat waits for us

Brushes and waves

Licking the moonlight

It’s seed ready for an Odyssey.

The grass has laid a graph

Of shadows on top of you.

And what do you wait for?

There is never a right time

To become what we wish we weren’t.

Failing silence, I speak to say

Tomorrow’s weather will be better.

Drier, dry enough to move

through this field without

Casting ditches made by machines.

You gather the invisible fabric

Of the air around yourself and

Touch your lips in thought.

Can I see? The grass is an ocean

And I wonder

if we will find one another in it.