Field 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 faltered step 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.