The wheat is full, pushing through the husks, ripe. / It overflows, lacking only / Those who yearn to harvest, / To gather and to give. . . .
This riot of lilies and sparrows, / Of pearls and trees and / Fields and fishermen, / This topsy turvy jumble
Pulling into the driveway, / Late (of course) – / Gathering my backpack, change, glasses, groceries . . .
Darting, shy, / They seem doubtful – / Have I really put this thistle out for them, / Or am I hoping for something / More exotic –