There is a sound a wheat field makes
when a strong breeze blows through
and it’s called rustling; but the one
I recall was more than a sound;
it was a world under that late
afternoon sun of that late
summer day of my early childhood,
as I played with my cousins, chasing
red-winged grasshoppers into
a sea of golden stalks; their yellow
warmer than gold, and of us then
being called back for dinner;
when this world would turn into
a universe with all the extended family
spread out over the garden and onto
the verandas and in the kitchen,
where some would be spooning and pouring,
and some, in the dining room, setting
and arranging just before we would all
sit down at a massive table and partake
of everything that was good under that sun.
