Fields Of Wheat

Down in the ripening fields of wheat,

The heads sway in a brisk wind,

All different hues of the color brown,

A riot of color without end.  

I am small beside the golden wheat.

The sun shines on my thoughtful face.

I am one with the waving  grain.

The sun goes down, with God’s grace.

I hold this  in the halls of memory:  

The wondrous image of a golden sea

That could be seen for miles away.

I only know the wheat danced for me.

Yu/stan/kema