Bearded Barley Poem by Allen Braden

Proud and skinny tow-head
stretching for sunshine,
slender arrow of gold
or wand with stiff whiskers,

you offer us summer magic
out of water, dirt and light.
The millstone, the baker,
the slave, pulpit and priest,

they all send their regards.
You send back your straw
so they may build empires
and pray for your safe-keeping

when a cloudburst in August
bows you flat against the earth
below the teeth of the combine,
even the sickle's blade and cradle;

or when a twister drives you
clear through a telephone pole;
when the unbelievable seems true.
I could have sworn I saw you

hopping a train for the mill,
determined on being refined
into a loaf of bread or angel food
or maybe even the body of Christ.