There are fewer stars today
and fewer anthems worth singing.
The land is cut like poor cloth
as mouths shape themselves to form letters.
But no on remembers the weight of words,
nor the maize in the marketplace.
All the wheat was sold as we walked along,
as we pedaled our robes, dusted with flour.
Smelling of yeast, we re-imagined the horizon,
in exact beams; measured acres in loaves of bread.
Collecting the space in woven baskets,
we gathered the grains all around us, like sheltered pain.
© 2007 henry toromoreno