The wheat dances to its own rhythm
as it sways, bends, folds and swoops
gently rippling as a calm, calm sea
nudged by a playful breeze
unconcerned by the walkers passing by
or the mournful cattle
bellowing in the adjacent field.
What rhythm am I dancing to
as I feel compelled to do
to achieve, to get?
This is not my rhythm
yet one I self-impose
caught in the busyness of activity.
What rhythm am I dancing to
as my hand casually strokes
the hairs of the wheat
as my face delights in the
soft caresses of a welcome breeze or
the warming touch of a late summer sun?
What rhythm am I dancing to
as I delight in the redness of poppies
the audacious tumble and fold of the
rolling hills and plunging valleys
the blueness of a crop
we cannot name?
This is my rhythm.
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