I beat their necks across my shovel,
Once so tall and dead-yellow in their splendor.
Now torn down-a simple feat,
but with implications too many to name.
as fall approached, and wrapped it's chilling fingers 'round
their stalks once proud and straight.
I took them from their earthy homes,
yanking, ripping, --primal in my duties,
yet oh so more knowing in my actions.
Silent, like limp baby dolls,
yet reserved to their fate.
Their soil-blood dripped from lingering roots
now cut in my ventures of harvest.
And then I met him, small and ochre
Green with a pallete of pink within
long thighs too shank for patience.
A Grasshopper, one and the same,
a fellow reminding me of the tale that came blunt and ironic
in this time.
And he told of how the corn made love with the wind
and it's whispering songs were it's children
Wandering and spent upon it's mother breeze.
He spoke of times so long before
such notions came to mind,
when people kept a feeling of solice
with these noble kingsmen
yet unbending in their purpose.
He spared his penchant thoughts with me,
Me the beggar, Him the teacher.
And I listened, long and careful, he perched upon my ashen fingers
as he stared
so oblique and knowing,
yet flat like stones in his comprehension.
I listened, and absorbed his short-drawn tale
like wine on a lonely night.
Before I could reply, or even thank him,
he fluttered from my fingers into the beds of ground
Reserved, like the corn, to his fate.
Willingly leaping into what would soon be his death.
Death by hunger and cold, but not of indifference,
for he knew his time, and why it would come,
And as I contiued, wrought with a silent revere,
I beat their necks a little softer,
against my grey-hard shovel.