Seeds scattered.
How many worms,
How many water drops
Make rolling hills of wheat rise
Uniformly—not in rows
But as one
Wild mass of golden nature?
The hill is occupied
For a time.
Someday, new winds
Might lash the wheat.
Ice, moss, or man
Might cut across the field
Changing its colours,
‘Til the soil loosens
And the hills melt into deltas—
Shifting surfaces of the planet.
Dare we dodge
Geology?
The crust itself becomes a question.
But how to answer it?
How long have we been
Hopping from hot spot to hot spot,
Leaving scorch marks on the bounce,
Leaving everything on the ground,
Liberated from the hold,
Living freely and without purpose—
The blossom of a weed
Cast off
Without culture?
