Sheaves of Grain

Our ancestors knew the meaning of abundance,
Understood that gratitude was a part of the equation.

Like the aroma ascending
from sheaves of grain
perfumed by last night’s rain,
our thankfulness must rise from our souls.

Hear the nightingale,
his joyous song giving
thanks for the beauty of the rose.

Watch the wind blowing
through fields of ripe wheat
waiting for the scythe to sever
stem from grain head
and the bundling of sheaves
grateful for the opportunity to serve.

Taste the savor
of dawn’s sweet gratitude scattering
the bitter fruit of night.

Feel the appreciation
of the fertile soil preparing
for its winter sleep
beneath tranquil blankets of white.