To the barley fields I go
To the barley fields I pray
my palms sweep across the world and
meet, curling, overlapping in the weight of brevity.
To the barley the fields, I go
to the barley fields I pray.
I hear the workers' feet tread on new grain.
Together, back, spun and sack, clutching
to the barley fields.
I go
to the barley fields,
I pray,
quiet as a field mouse being watched as prey.
I kneel in the pasture,
Their tall fingers thread and braid my hair,
watching how men cleave oats from roots.
I go to the barley fields,
I pray in the barley fields,
Hunching low and last
For out of little comes much
(This miniscule much in my palm)
And my hands caress the crop
That has been dropped
my trail of pruning portion
This shearing share
This here hand-picked provision
Granted to me this day.
Careful not to clutch all
in the barley fields. Just this:
barely barley
I go to the barley fields
I pray out loud amongst throngs of men.
For thanks of food and favor found here
With each harvested seed
I pray and pray
bless this
the barely barley in my arms
May the shearing share
Sow and reap more and much
To much and more this day