DON'S WHEAT FIELD

DON’S WHEAT FIELD

The path out of his small village
to reach wheat fields -
began - at the square; Great
Grandpa probably talked to
his donkey before climbing
a mountain before sunrise.
He probably rubbed the
donkey’s back before draping
cloth over him with sacks,
still empty.

I would guess - as he climbed
up on the donkey’s back, and
he stopped to gaze to his right -
where a glorious sun creped
out of the sea, and changed the
color of his world.

I would guess, when the sea
transformed from purple,
as water – flashing,
flutters different shades –
pink, followed by a beautiful
aqua sea -
He stood still for a few seconds -
Only a few seconds - a Don
may be watching – but not
at a magnificent - beautiful sea.

In the distance, if he glanced
over the mountain’s edge, he
would see the Aeolian Islands.

Francisco - picked wheat,
filled sacks, walked his donkey
to a stone hut - placed wheat
beneath shade under a hut for
Big Shots to pick up, for the
Big Shots to make into flour –
Bigger Shots took this
flour to market...

Back and forth,
as the sun grew larger day’s
end arrived – Francisco with
his donkey walked down the
mountain, he would glance to
his left -
a sun falling into orange,
red and violet water –
colored as if geranium bushes,
oranges, and lemons of the land –
colors soaking back into the sea,
tinting the sky a beautiful shade of
purple really was not land...

He fed his donkey
walked home to his wife, Santa
to wait for the Don to collect his
slips, one Don, one account, as
the man walked from house to
house – within his village, it was
his village, those who lived there
only slept there – made enough
for their family, as chickens crept
through open doors; Santa, she
fed them scraps while Francisco
never slept - never had much, but
he had his family, on a corner of
the square – his donkey resting
for another day.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2010