Harvest of the youth

Driving through cotton fields shielded from the morning
By the listless fog, the scent of a harvest and the decapitated
Stems bleed in through the air vents and I think of a field
Thrusting a dying hand out to beg me to save its
Freshly sheared dreams. How else does one dream of a land

Outside these agricultural skies if not for the seeds that have
Latched upon passing vehicles and germinate in the
Shade of skyscrapers? And now who guards the family home
When it is left with empty husks? No wonder the Old
Grow deeply rooted like cyprus by the river banks, knobbly-
Kneed and soggy from the overflowed creek
And they sit in it
Stubbornly refusing to stop its slow drowning.