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.