Gravity's Crop

The whole field, a hunch. Bent necks

like old men counting coin, or just

waiting for the drop.

Their yellow, a memory, rust

has set in, petal edges torn.

Brittle stalks, a quiet crack

under a heel. And one head, black

with seed, a weight, so full it strains

the stem. A tired king that reigns

from a bowed throne, a few dry scraps

of gold still clinging. It just saps

the light, doesn't even turn.

Some lessons, hard-won, we all learn.