The wheat glistens in the September sun,

as bright as the fine hairs along the cheek

of a girl who points at the horizon,

where the sky and her index finger meet,

tracing the long line of her origin.

She anticipates the expanding flames

from the earth, her incandescent prison,

that vast, infinitely shimmering plain

of light undulating in the north wind,

which spills into the corners of the room

when she opens the long yellow curtains.

Combing her hair by the window, she moves

as deliberately as a composer,

her blonde rows now burning in the warm air.