Summer Wheat

The wind blows and the wheat rustles,
whispers in the summer sun,
dancing with the light on each tiny kernel,
nuggets of gold.

What secrets do they tell?
What songs do they sing so quietly
to each other?
Love songs? Songs of survival?

I do not know.
I hear only their song of peace,
of beauty in the wind
right up to the moment of their end.

About this poem. 

My hero these days is a 93 year old man in my church who still works 3 days a week, makes things in his workshop that he sells to the Vermont Country Store, sings in the choir at church (last week he did a solo), reads constantly and still knows how to change his mind.

No fading out for me.

Tom