The WORLD AS A WHEAT FIELD

The world is a wheat field,
Skillfully sprinkled with dresses of red poppies
To sing and chirp and laugh.
The fruitful ears murmur in a whisper
In the breeze of summer noon,
In the hot flickering of July air,
Until the reapers and the combines come
And all the ears are cut down with sharpened sickles and the Grim Reaper’s scythe,
With winnowing, drum, threshing, sieve, auger conveyor
And straw walker,
Until only the full grain remains for fragrant bread.