the wheat grows right outside our door whether we will it or not through sad summer rain through weeping spring through the breaking of the air He walks through these fields fingers splayed at his sides feeling the growing grain heads this force, greater than all our desires has brought them near the end and at the harvest, the stalks will dance with surrender the cowardice of the scythe becomes the joy of the giver who will this life feed, the saints on the corner begging for bread the deer tangled in the bloodwire we lay a seed or two on our tongues for sustenance to lift this child from the ground to become food for all and begin our eternity of giving
Casey Mills writes poems early in the morning while his kids sleep and the birds wake. His poetry has been published in Heart of Flesh, Amethyst Review, Ekstasis, and Solid Food Press.
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