The Field
A wind blows softly caressing a field,
Delicate, yielding waves of wheat
Surrender to the direction the wind moves.
With each passing breeze
They move in grace and unity,
This spectacular dance of nature.
Illumination glistens from their heads
What beauty shows in their harmony,
As if a song is being sung.
Not even the thistles standing tall & erect
As if pride keeps them from bending,
Disrupts the dance that fills the field.
For in each passing breeze
Is their calling to dance & sway,
In humble obedience to the wind.
The sun warms them, clouds shade them
And nourishes them with gentle mists of rain,
To reward them for their diligence.
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