Kernel Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Kernel

I, the boy from the village,
See me as some kernel,
On the farm of wheat-hay
In the heat of summer.

I notice the partridges,
They fly, run, escape.

Close are the farmers
Everyone has a sickle.

I observe the donkeys
Coming in caravans,
Carrying load saddles.

Mule pulls the blades,
Parallels, circular,
Sharp as if a razor blade
For shaving the straws,
Turning them to thin hay.

Holding a bridle, a driver
Sound as if singing a song
To the mule in the blind.

Few men with the rakes
Pull and shift the stacks,
Flatten to pave the way
For very sharp blades
To crush like a hammer.

Little me, now orphaned
Hug friends, embrace
My cousins, poor kernels.

We end up in the bags,
Woven by men, women
And head for the storage,
Or silo, for winter,
Then milled to flour,
For the bakers, bread.