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She was in the wheat field sleeping. Away from the barns
her small body low in the grasses and hulls,
wheat stalks fanning

slow dreams
of wood-smoked air draping the damp fields of golden rod, sweet pea and thistle;

clouds stirring and the storm thickens
the first cold drops.

Beads dissemble down,
down on her ear,
down on tongue's tip,
cold lobs catching
and the bead-bursts streaking her face.

Her auburn hair wet frosted
strands in new morning dew,
wet against her cheek,
her head resting here
where broken seeds scatter and stalks ooze and
foam. I was in a wheat field dreaming

huddled in my father's favorite red flannel
stolen from the moth ball hall closet
that damn cramped,
damned roughshod house of "don't touch anything,"
I dreamt I was in a wheat field

dreaming the rain
dreaming the swollen seed bodies as they scattered and clotted
the eaves of these weary barns