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The way wheat whispers

as it is poured

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from basket to basket,

or reaper to wagon

to bin to truck,

always the soosh of it,

lullaby for hunger,

making it sleep

and dream of wind

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pushing almost silent

through the tall fields

of spring grain,

the early harvest,

brief whirl beneath

the hill as if two

lovers stirred there

after losing themselves

just as the green

from the tallest stalk

drains into the brown



tasting the sweet bread

of it, until memory

alone can recall.

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