Harvest

Bowed against the blowing wind
With roots into the ground,
The stalk of wheat will surely bend,
But hold the footing found.

Pounded by the pouring rain
Through storms that pass this way,
The stalk will drink, and still remain
To grow another day.

Baking in the burning sun
Without respite from heat,
Each eve another battle won,
So close to it's defeat.

Keeping silent in the night,
For predators may pass,
The stalk sees prey pursued in flight,
Though fleeing, caught, alas.

The many dangers that may be
Within the golden glade
Cannot compare to you or me,
Who wield the harvest blade.