They still make their way
around the long curves
of this broken way.
These peasants with seeds,
silver headed elders
wrapped in bandannas and overalls and odor.
The engine of their tractor hums the steady song
of yearning to feed the nations.
I am wheat and wind beside the summer road,
realize that I am fed by mercy seed
over and over again.
And the tractor slows,
the singing quiets.
I wave to the leathered driver.
Her eyes shine inside of the sun
as she waves back.
I think the eyes are blue.
Sky to eye, eye to land.
We both hope that she will be down this road again tomorrow.