A book and boy in his lap, a farmer tells
his grandson how a big combine cuts the wheat,
and loaves of fresh-baked bread come out
the other end. They compare hands.
The mind — well, the mind is really just a pitchfork
full of loose hay, and frogs, and owls,
and wagon-rides, with some starlight thrown in,
and you grind it into flour somehow,
add some rain, and the sun turns it into bread.
There’s a big brick oven up there —
between the ears, that is.
And a heaven
The order doesn’t matter as much
as the tool at hand.