drawing wheat
in his dirt
dragging
a harrow
a perfect
half-sphere
to end
each row
to show
his sky
his love
in fresh
manure
wriggling
his boots
to reveal
its history
pleasuring
its texture
first its sheen
then its
rainbows
this boy's pencil
on his big chief pad
is not enough
for the lay of hay
is in the small
of his muscles
the darkness
of his barn
in his wrists
the rush of ditch water
in his spine
the glory
of the soil
in his eyes
on his tongue
is tingling
through
the fine bones
of his fingers
like the thrill
of thaw
after freezing
while busting
ice slabs
on his bull's trough
holding a slab
up to light
looking through it
at his father
an odd
wobbly thing
a man
he does not know
though this boy's
heritage
is the farm
his blood
was contrary
at birth
infused
with the delicacy
of the soul
of an artist
his body
his brush
the farm
his masterpiece
so in long strokes
he pours
his wheat
across their pen
to write
his name
in cursive
five feet high
then releases
his hens
from their coop
watches them
spell out
his signature
for the sky
_____The Poet SPIEL
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem