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In the Way of Grain

I do not know how to love in the way of grain.
The way wheat moans before a south wind,
anticipating crosscurrents, bowing without wonder,
reflecting the echoed shadow of oceans.

I do not know how to love the way white birds
caress updrafts beneath sharp cliffs
calmly waiting to carry and be carried
to parapets of rest.

I do not know how to love in the way of trees.
Swallowing sun, bearing green children
held up for damp approval to each foolish April rain.

I do not know how to love in the way of fire
consuming air, consumed by water, like none other,
expressing heat and light, the illusion of safety,
the illusion of control.

I do not know how to love, but in this one way -
as a man; foolish, tired, alive
Willing to offer and accept.
Knowing there are only moments
that one may love
in the way of grain,
White birds, trees and fire.

© J BARRETT WOLF