On Sunday
autumn’s workers
will be bringing in the sheaves,
to pour upon the altar
while I’m stuck here in my seat.
If sheaves are sheep,
let’s say that,
and count our blessings deep.
But why must we compare some folks
to silly grains of wheat?
If ears of corn are cob-stripped
are the kernels ears at all?
When truths are left on pages
are they really truths at all?
Why do ear shaped words seem holy
when I press them to the sky?
But kernels on this hymnal
seem to fall amidst the lines?