Harvest grain glows burnished bronze, in the sun’s warm glow
The tall proud stalks, crowned and tasselled bow to the passing wind.
The wayward wind ruffles their heads and gently passes on.
I hear the rustling of gossipy leaves, as they draw near one another,
Ive seen them young and green and tender in the cool of the spring weather.
Soon enough they’ll be bunched and tied in rows of dry corn shocks
Ready to feed the mighty on the earth, but knowing well the worth
Of all living things,the farmer will surely leave for the littlest ones
The last of the harvest gleanings.