FIELDS OF WHEAT

A peak experience recalled

 

Fields of wheat

I am standing in a field of wheat nearly harvest ready,

my eyes are tightly shut, arms outstretched to steady

as I slowly place my foot.

My ungainly faltering gait reminds me I should stop.

I am completely blind, motionless amidst the crop

when joy untold I find.

Other senses are invoked as sight has now been shed,

insects hum and sing, a symphony by Grasshopper led,

accents by corvid wing.

I feel warm solar lips brush tenderly against my hair,

and hear the rush, of wheat flock sway by fussing air

toying without crush.

Spice tinged scent, barely there from a hidden source,

pollen and cereal dust, birdsong a melody of Morse,

caught on sudden Gust.

I relish this sensual treat, that caught me by surprise,

the moment I closed my eyes.

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