I am standing alone in a wheat field

open, wide open, 

vast,
and no one comes.

​

I know the gold is beautiful, the rustling- melodic

and restless,

I have nowhere to put my hands. 
I know

​

I am beautiful. I am vast and golden

alive

and tending myself by way of 
rain but no one comes. No

​

woman in straw,

no one

to perch on my weathered skin and peck 
the bugs from my weary, button eyes,

​

I know. The gold is beautiful but

what would it take

for surefire arms to lift me 
down from this splintered stake

​

and rock me, rock me to some different

harmony?

I am all outstretched, but you do not come;
do I scare you?

​

Do I scare you?