Proud and skinny tow-head

stretching for sunshine,

slender arrow of gold

or wand with stiff whiskers,

you offer us summer magic

out of water, dirt and light.

The millstone, the baker,

the slave, pulpit and priest,

they all send their regards.

You send back your straw

so they may build empires

and pray for your safe-keeping

when a cloudburst in August

bows you flat against the earth

below the teeth of the combine,

even the sickle's blade and cradle;

or when a twister drives you

clear through a telephone pole;

when the unbelievable seems true.

I could have sworn I saw you

hopping a train for the mill,

determined on being refined

into a loaf of bread or angel food

or maybe even the body of Christ.