By Benjamin Brooks

Lying down in the field,
The wheat grows through me,
Rooting me to the ground,
Adding a tether to my gravity.

My attention pours and spreads
Across the rolling fields and rows.
Wrinkles across my face serene,
I stare at your budding clouds above.

Their edges slowly curl back.
Flowers of mist face the sky.
Soft currents of air spread
Petals into billowing hedges of greys.

You peer across my undulating plains
That flatten into a gentle distant curve.
Shards of birds dance in your lifting air
That pulls and tussles my bending grass.

Your clouds are secretly rooted to me.
Each with a stem of warm moist air
Rising from my sun baked fields:
An ethereal, sky-bound xylem.

We feed and wash each other;
Always caressing, earth and air.
We are bound by our boundary,
An immense surface of touch.

_______
Note: Xylem (zilem) is a vascular tissue in plants for transporting water up stems and trunks