The Traveling Library: In the Wheat


In the wheat, I find my feet
and point them toward the sky,
so it can see, the pain in me,
my scrapped, scattered soul, awry.

Then all my scars carved deep and dark
rush to my feet to say,
"each step was pain,
each day the lame-
-ness of these soles: my birthmark."


These fields remind me of my grandfather Blair - I can't tell you why, but they do.