Waves of wheat,
in warm Iowa winds,
acres and acres of forever,
wait to be reaped and transformed,
much like humans, living in the sun,
wait for Death's transformation.

like it--window watcher
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I like it too. I can almost smell those warm wheat-fields, like the ones I crawled through, in tunnels as a child, though I wasn't supposed to. Then, the picture of the end. I know where I'm going after death transforms me, as surely as the farmer knows the reaped wheat will be safe in the barn. My loving Heavenly Father has assured me. R.J.G.
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one of the many circles of life...neat poem...m.e.