by Nicholas Cockayne

Created on: March 04, 2007   Last Updated: May 18, 2007

Wild Rice

In paddy fields lines of men sprout,
Growing out of mirrored water.

Wilting hats catch the Sun's
Sighs, following it's fall.

Winds whipping over hills
Bend them bobbing to touch silver,

To pluck at wild rice.

I sit wrapped in the cloth
Of this distant city's acrid smog.

Crowded horizons and streets
Meet in dislocation.

I sit and try and fail and
Find myself

Unable to picture their vegetable harvest.

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