Dream Watch

I softly call your name as I slip into the stand of wheat,

fifty-five acres of gold.

Careful not to shell the seed, my aged hands

push ripened stems aside.

You must be here for you love the fullness of a crop.

Yards farther, I call again.

The hawk above must wonder

at the trails through the field.

Did you leave with the winnowing scythe,

the burning heat of August?

For some good reason, I cannot find you here,

amid the nightly dreams and tear-damp pillow.