A Wheat Field by Nicholas Ingalls (Ekphrastic poem 2)

 In a field of wheat, tall and windy the

Golden trees of barley, frayed ends like the
Splits on the ends of long hair, left too long
Unattended, burning in the deep
Fiery sun.  A field far from farms,
Far from the danger of iron monsters,
And the cold decapitating scythes,
Cutting relentlessly until all frayed
ends lay defeated, ground into the harsh
oblivion, awaiting a farther
future of grinding, pulling, and burning.
Drinking readily from their bases, a
Creek runs winding through the field, cuts off
The two grassy relatives, the older,
Greened from it overindulgence and the
Younger, dry, never winning the battle
For water. Behind the wheat, rolling hills
Of brush and trees, green as dark emerald,
A waterfall, the crashing waves of blue-
Ish white that give away its anger
And velocity. The edge of each wave,
Rolling up to the cake frosting that has
Been smeared across the face of the sky.
The clouds remind me of youth, a time when
Birthdays were celebrated with heaping
blocks commercial cake, candles burning gold
tipped flames, lights that sparkled with happiness,
youthful joys of childhood and naïveté.
They remind me of childhood friends and regrets.
What are they doing now, where have they gone.