Already, he has worked like this for hours,
moving his scythe beneath the gold horizon.
There’s stillness here. There is the swirl
of wheat, both what’s been cut and what remains
standing, and the blade not so different
from a bayonet, a useful edge that’s made of steel—
although it’s best to forget everything
except the green and yellow glimmering,
brushstrokes of orange deeper in the field.
What little speckling of red there is, is at the root.
Mostly there’s sky, a shade of blue
that might be called his daughter’s eyes, or the blue
of a broken shell he once found tumbled from a nest.
There’s the sweat that leaves a shadow
on his shirt and his uniform coat thrown far
to the corner of the frame and the shape
of his old canteen. Later, he will lift the dark
metal to his mouth and drink, until he barely tastes
the dust. He’ll keep his gaze directed at the dirt,
behind him, the labors of the day laid flat,
and the grain giving way before him, falling
no heavier than light against the ground.
Jehanne Dubrow
Jehanne is the author of seven poetry collections, as well as a book of creative nonfiction. An eighth poetry collection, Simple Machines, won the Richard Wilbur Award and will be published in 2020. Her ninth book of poems, Wild Kingdom, is forthcoming from LSU Press in 2021. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Southern Review, New England Review, and Pleiades, among others. Her poetry collection Stateside was previously reviewed in Consequence. She is a Professor of Creative Writing at the University of North Texas.