The Gleaners

We come to these fields wearing our own faces
Certain of a plenitude that is not
Ours, gleaning the last
By a strength that is.

We come in solid bodies belonging to our
Hands, in hands
Belonging to our task,
In task slave
To quick, intuitive hungers.

The ground speaks to our down-thrust
Limbs
Of a time when sheaves
Were not crops,
When life
Was not depleted.

A field will tell its creatures
What it knows.