Each Far Field of Rye

Each Far Field of Rye
Christopher Bogart

When I look close at each far field of rye,
I see at once each tender husk,
each fine-haired light green oval seed,
perched atop each slender stalk, each
tied to each companion’s fate.

Brittle yet plaint to the wind’s will,
they rustle together in the thousands,
in the hundreds of thousands, in each far field,
so near now, one could gently touch
with just one finger tip
each stalk, each husk, each hair, or palm,
each wave in the breathing nature of autumn’s air.

And, as I place my foot upon the rutted road
to load the wagon at the end of day,
I hear the rustle of those far fields of rye,
and, in their gentle tunes, I travel on my way.