feast of weeks

the soul is a field where stones grow tall
cresting the soil, a dirt colored squash
mounting to the sky, grey, sweet, corn
watered by streams of gravel

if you have ever walked where I have
or somewhere like it
you have seen them
harmonized by necessity into a wall

by a farmer who had to harvest them first
last and in between
knuckles broken sometimes crushed
scratching in the dust for dust
before any green and yelding thing could find its place