Waves
of wheat:
green, pale green,
golden
bend
to the winds
of inflation;
this one cent
will not
buy
you much;
better save it
for the bread of life,
of wheat grain
growing,
your
wheat hair
blowing in the wind;
no government
can devalue
you;
but this
paltry cent
minted before
your grandparent's time
is all you'll have
of Nineteen-
Forty-
Five.
It's
all you'll
need when Lincoln
speaks from copper lips
of God and Trust
while markets
spin the
price
of wheat:
up one cent,
down one cent, like
waves of heat, like wind
that blows through
sweetgrass
hair.
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