I have seen a field
Of gold running straight
On west a half a mile.

I thought I knew the owner
Of these tannish, burnished stalks
Lit by the setting sun.

Each grain gushed into others,
And when three semi-trucks
Were filled to overflowing
It even took a wagon
For the rest of it.

The yield is the lesson:
It's God who sends the rain
And holds the hail back
And sets the temperature
To warm but not too hot.

There is a harmony
That made this crop to reap
Whose seeds are threshed for planting,
Taking root inside
My heart-first soft and green,
Then turning golden, glowing,
Rich and ripe, it's rye:
We harvest in July.