Why should these golden fields of hay,
Waving lazily beneath the hill,
Be anything more than a cliché,
Rather than vestigial
As our childhood sows
Parts of musicals
And songs, on meadows
Where the sickles
That trim fields to skies
Are the threshers
Of our aging eyes,
Driven by the pressures
Of the age
Into upthrust plate
Of timothy and sage,
Pollinated by the weight
Of rage and hate and worry,
Mown by fear
And urban fury
Until the worlds beneath appear.
October 19th, 2011, Billings airport