The Field

As I walked through the untrimmed field of wheat,
I noticed untidiness under my feet.
A certen feel of uncare,
like the locks of my hair,
I had a great want for the field to be bare.
As I let my hand brush over the the bread to be,
an ever small thought sparked the brain of me.
Why must it be rough?
Why must it be wild?
Why would the great farmer abandon his child?
So I picked up my hoe,
and I picked up my rake,
and I scraped and I scraped till it smooth as a lake.

Josh T.