The Visitor

In the heat of the afternoon
I stopped for a drink and while
my sweat dried and hands relaxed
looked at my work. The corn showed
nary a weed, the plants dark green,
the third leaf showing, sun wakened,
a meadowlark bobbed on a fence post
and pumped out a trickle of song,
a morning glory climbed the gate post
I leaned against and barbed wire
ran shining along the field’s edge
to protect my ownership.
A breath of air touched me softly
like a bird’s wing across my face
and suddenly I felt like a stranger
who stayed here only by the sufferance
of growing things and I almost bowed
to the earth as a favored guest might
who was invited to stay out his visit.