Somewhere far from

this sunlit table, grains

of wheat were spread

over a field of dark earth,

opened as though for

a burial, and then

covered by the fall rains.

There, it seemed, they died.

And when new green came,

stretching up to the light,

it was only to find the days

shortening, the nights

becoming long and hard

and cold and deathly still.

Under snow they waited,

a field of orphans, huddling

for warmth, then growing

until at summer’s end, heads bowed,

they were taken away,

stripped, crushed and ground

down in a harsh transformation.

In the oven, kneaded and

changed, they rose again,

flooding the whole place,

as the door was moved away,

with their sweet breath,

the cheering promise

of nourishment.

And here once again

they are broken,

lifted on a tray,

spread among us

to be buried in us

to remind us of death

And to bring us to life.