Blue sky wheat

Tease stems apart inside a maze of supple seeds,
let husky rasps brush past your palms -
your needs are met, and, naked under cobalt skies,
as hot sun gathers in your eyes, an empire calls:
this burnished wheatfield roars
of lives that incandesce and blaze beneath a golden-azure crest,
each separate grain caressed by graceful light -
spikes flame atop its bearded head.
The scythe shall not cut short their ranks
nor shall a hair be shorn
till, burst forth from the glutted banks,
a sun-ripe bread is born.