WINTER WHEAT
Octobers, we would watch it sprout
and wait for Spring to grow. I hung to the back crease
of Dad’s pants. Short enough to walk between his legs,
like wind weaving through straight, green
stems of May. Don’t remember when the stalks
yellowed. Gradually, seed heads began
to bend, from top to last kernel. June, the harvester
separated wheat from chaff. The tractor blade cut low,
the hay rake windrowed, baler spat square bales
until the field was stubble like his face. Thirty Octobers later,
he is too tired to shave. His gray hair, a field of weeds.
He uses a walker, stiff like straw stalks.
