On Sunday

autumn’s workers 

will be bringing in the sheaves,

to pour upon the altar 

while I’m stuck here in my seat.

If sheaves are sheep, 

let’s say that,

and count our blessings deep.

But why must we compare some folks 

to silly grains of wheat?

If ears of corn are cob-stripped

are the kernels ears at all?

When truths are left on pages

are they really truths at all?

Why do ear shaped words seem holy

when I press them to the sky?

But kernels on this hymnal 

seem to fall amidst the lines?