Pale sky in transparent wrinkles opened hopeful morning,
whistful whispers of wind brushed the bowing wheatstalks where
gold was spun in breadbasket weave,
and I waited.

Foreigner to your fields I was too bashful to ask to glean,
but hiding behind citizen-skirts I could barely
approach the fallen grain in hunger,
and I gathered.

Poverty peered over the field's horizon as my hands grasped grain,
women watched each handful of purpose to judge my pace
and talk of my alien manner,
and you wondered.

You whispered orders to your workers, they smiled in wide-eye nods,
and dropped their grain at my feet in bundles of wonder,
while I breathlessly received your gift,
and you reveled.

What did I merit or earn, but mercy in grain's golden store,
your love itself turned poverty to prosper with you,
and changed foreigner to family,
and I wondered.

submitted by:
Mark Phillips