As we planted six-inch seedling trees,
Digging postholes, you two worked ahead.
Down the hill I rested on my knees,
Drinking in the western light that spread
Through the field to paint the ripening crop
Vivid green. Topped with heads of gold,
Bending in the breeze that rarely stops,
This gentle sea of swaying color rolled.

The moment was so simple, even sacred.
I stitched it in my heart with memory’s thread.
The seasons and their harvests fill a lifetime;
I could live forever raising rye.