Poetry | Journal

A single wheat grain twirled around a
finger
fraying at the ends,
where golden intentions
turn brittle and fracture at the bends.
The sun through your seams
seems to mend the chizzled out nodes
little hollowed holes,
swaying with the wind of a winter morning
cold and ornery
drying up for the season and breaking down.
Back to the soil, drenched to mud
slicked back under your stressed simple body,
ready to fling if the wind would just lift you up again.

If only to twirl around again instead
longing to feel the fullness of spring
hoping it’s on the horizon