You were never the honeysuckle scent
laden with a lushness of lust, not
the blush of a rosebud released from
its dew-prison a morning in June.
You are my breeze in the bending of wheat,
in swells; that gold in the movement of leaves,
You are the leavening raising my dough,
you’re the salt and bitterness buried in soil.
You are in my arms, stronger and better
when we stand on the pavement
wet from the rain that’s lashing your hair.
We gaze at the sky, forgiving our lapse
in consuming the love that was handed
in the pillowy loaves, pregnant with wheat.
Rosemary guest hosts at dVerse with a prompt on wheat giving us some great example of Pablo Neruda’s use of wheat. I combined that with the art of Vincent van Gogh who have many paintings of wheat.
October 25, 2020