by: John Grey

I still worship at the feet of corn planters,
not horse traders, but the ones that feed those equines oats,
and the chicken counters, traipsing the dusty corral,
trading fingers in for numbers,
and the hymn singers, harsh or pure,
rocking the relentless stem of their wooden churches,
a congregation rising through each other,
bucking the ruthless human tides,
and the winter bearers, fusing their social bonds in hearth fires,
frost on the eaves, flakes on the window,
snow-covered fields, winds from the north,
the outline that holds them in place.