My great-grandfather ploughed his land
And from the furrow
Went to war.
If you don't reap the grain,
It will strike you like a bullet.
No thing is wasted
Of what the earth has birthed.
Everything has a place
From the field to the threshing floor
From the threshing floor to the barn.
No matter how much you've reaped,
Counted, measured, and loaded,
No matter how many bags you've filled
To the top, at home
There remains an emptiness:
Bits of chaff from the kernels
In the swollen gums of hunger.
