Smotheringly dense and dark,

A viscous green and growing mortar

Spread by master masons

Across the warming fields in springtime

Sharp-edged fields so thickly

Covered that they do not bow

Before spring's windy gusts,

But move in fluid rhythmic waves

How starkly do they contrast

With the brown and withered stubble

On the fallow fields that flank them,

Who slumber deeply till they,

In turn, will fill the stage

Is Nature not Director

Of a shifting cast of actors,

Performing in a myriad of settings

On a moving stage?

Director pushing unseen buttons

On an ever-changing panel of control?

Is not the field of wheat the odd man,

Rather than the Prairie where it grows?

~by Tom Steven, Lakewood 5/8/2007