In the Wheat and Barley

"Wheatfield with Cypresses", Vv Gogh, 1889

I remember being young and making "little places" in the grain fields of a nearby farm. After neatly pressing down the stalks and making a squiggly pathway to it, it became a place to imagine. It felt grand and safe. There, I could talk to myself, dream of girls that I might someday know, watch the wind move as waves across grain-tops or even simply let the sun hit my face. It smelled good, was earthy and peaceful -- it was right.

* * *

If your hands were delicate then I would certainly miss the earth in your skin
They were this, one hundred years ago and at least a few hundred before that- a day and many more when the sun and soil turned your skin into butterscotch and where paint on fingers, simply hid what was better than a covert of any color

* * *

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly:
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain:
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley
- From: "The Rigs o Barley", Robert Burns, 1783