When waves of wheat lap in the deepening glory of harvest,
I wonder if the fields that gather their ripening wheat in their embrace
Fear the coming shearing when the whisper of heavy heads
Becomes lost in the roar of teeth tearing kernels from each stalk.
Do these fields fear the nakedness, lying shorn under the sickle moon
Robbed of their glory, the loss of their fruit, their fruit
Or do they release with quiet hands the life they nurtured and bore
Rejoicing with the reapers come to bring home their own?