Drawing Wheat Poem by The Poet SPIEL

drawing wheat

in his dirt
dragging
a harrow
a perfect
half-sphere
to end
each row
to show
his sky
his love

in fresh
manure
wriggling
his boots
to reveal
its history
pleasuring
its texture
first its sheen
then its
rainbows

this boy's pencil
on his big chief pad
is not enough

for the lay of hay
is in the small
of his muscles
the darkness
of his barn
in his wrists
the rush of ditch water
in his spine
the glory
of the soil
in his eyes
on his tongue
is tingling
through
the fine bones
of his fingers
like the thrill
of thaw
after freezing
while busting
ice slabs
on his bull's trough

holding a slab
up to light
looking through it
at his father
an odd
wobbly thing
a man
he does not know

though this boy's
heritage
is the farm
his blood
was contrary
at birth
infused
with the delicacy
of the soul
of an artist

his body
his brush

the farm
his masterpiece

so in long strokes
he pours
his wheat
across their pen
to write
his name
in cursive
five feet high
then releases
his hens
from their coop

watches them
spell out
his signature
for the sky

_____The Poet SPIEL