Harvest rye

Regret transcends through time
as quickly as the rye unfolds its bounty
An intellectual seed fastened to the machine
Pumping out offspring to satisfy bellies
And the mothers, forgotten;
preoccupied by the pine of a looming wither
O’ that weathered weed;
With skeletal verdure and
stalks with unflattering jackets
Her lament;
this subtle mourn—
into the vessel and out of the womb
without thought; without context
See me; feel me
I am of husk and not of grain
I am a body with gesture; with spirit
I am here and I am fraught
with lost vigour
hurled into the wind
with these flaccid roots, disconnecting—
anchored only by sparse tendrils
dug into the soil
to meddle in this fertile blanket
without any marrow