The Wavering Grain Poem by Joseph Peter Ostapiuk

Just as smoke from the fire
rises to the canopy of pine,
my eyes believe,
'thine beauty is mine.'

Observing the embers,
as they flash and die.
Through the air,
so clear and fine
My eyes conceive
'thine beauty is mine.'

These sights alone,
have led me to the road,
covered in gravel,
isolated in its own.

Walking past the house of the owner,
down to the river,
I stutter.
For even in darkness,
a cerulean sky is above
With a snowflake shape light,
made with stars through the night.

Gazing upon further,
a shooting star,
then,
no longer
Like a flicker
through a shutter,
until I have come to find,
tis not divine,
'thine beauty is mine'

And on my path back home,
a road tempts me,
but not my own.
And it sounds as if, or nay,
that the sound of life
has refrained from it today
But I choose not to go,
for thine beauty is mine
and this night has allowed it to be so.

Plain and plentiful,
the wavering grain.
Breathes and recedes.
Through morning dew,
summer heat,
and magenta sky.

As dusk approaches-
its breathing subsides,
but it does not die.
For like I,
the grain,
plain and plentiful,
finds solace
in the night sky