Poem of the Week

A cool wind blows on summer evenings, stirring the wheat.

The wheat bends, the leaves of the peach trees

rustle in the night ahead.

In the dark, a boy’s crossing the field:

for the first time, he’s touched a girl

so he walks home a man, with a man’s hungers.

Slowly the fruit ripens—

baskets and baskets from a single tree

so some rots every year

and for a few weeks there’s too much:

before and after, nothing.

Between the rows of wheat

you can see the mice, flashing and scurrying

across the earth, though the wheat towers above them,

churning as the summer wind blows.

The moon is full. A strange sound

comes from the field—maybe the wind.

But for the mice it’s a night like any summer night.

Fruit and grain: a time of abundance.

Nobody dies, nobody goes hungry.

No sound except the roar of the wheat.