This time

short time ago

these limp wheat fields were

 lying

in cold wind showers

and dearth.

Where they died

silking in with other grains

leaving

dirt.

That grew

tall grass,

and fed from past

the grains around.

Not one, not twelve, but

unnumbered—fruits of life

whirled by angry winds to earth

to feed a thousand

lives.

Teacher, friend, parent,

blend with other

seeds of books of lives

to make a harvest.

The fruit—

of that first wheat kernel

 long time ago.