Wheat. You’re beautiful and I had no idea just how much. I apologize because every day for I don’t know how many months now, I passed by you as I walked along the greenhouses and fields with shovel in hand to empty out the sand from the stream that flows into the pond, or with a wool blanket to lie down on the grass at sunset, coloring pictures of butterflies and iguanas while the clouds graze pink and white across the ever darker blue of the summer evening sky. Weeding around the strawberries and zucchini, I didn’t notice if your stalks were straight or bent by the pathway of dogs or unknown forces during the night. I had no idea about your lightness and softness when you are piled and ready to be tied, or how pleasurable it is to take you in my arms and squeeze you tight with the twine lightly burning my hand with the friction, wrapping you with it and pushing your stalks together to compact the bundle.
Now that I think about it, I realize that you sincerely tried to capture my attention, growing there in silence and appreciating the beauty around you, the vastness of human life with all its distraction and technology, hunger and emotive scenes, laughter and moments of purity and creation. With your color so creme beige and neutral, you seemed like just a passive background to me. The fire of the night, the effort of the day. You witnessed everything and now that we are harvesting you, you speak to me, letting me know that you know who we are, giving yourself over with zero resistance to the scythe that anyhow needs to be sharpened. Silent gift of nature, humble friend, now I see you and I thank you.
Frumento. Sei bellissimo e non avevo idea quanto. Ti chiedo scusa perché ogni giorno da non so quanti mesi già ti ho attraversato mentre camminavo lungo le serre ed i campi verso il laghetto con la pala in mano per svuotare la sabbia dal ruscello che dà al laghetto, o con una coperta di lana per sdraiarmi sul prato al tramonto e colorare disegni di farfalle e iguane mentre le nuvole pascolano rosa e bianche attraverso il blu sempre più scuro della sera estiva. Continue reading