Rice

Rice planted, rice sprouts, peeking through bare earth,
Like single blades of grass, bright green against the dust.
Growing, they strengthen until the busy farmers visits,
And starts the well pump. The motor hums through the night
Until all is flooded, water licks up against dirt levees.
In their humid, mosquito-infested home, the green plants fatten.
Green enough to make a Tiger jealous,
A stark contrast to orange levee gates
And the ubiquitous red-winged blackbird
That flutters here, there, among the grasses.
Days grow hot, dry, and trucks stir up dust that settles on their heads,
Heads that are filling out with fruit,
The kernels are fattening, and this too, the farmer sees.
He pulls the levee gates (they are only tarps),
Delivers the water from its prison, scatters
It over roads and ditches.
And now the rice is ready for the final stretch,
The kernels must ripen, this is the purpose of their life.
And as the kernels ripen, the rice begins to change.
The green fades slowly, slowly, yet inexorably
Into gold, gold for the farmer,
Gold for the eater, the harvest.