Beneath The Rain

This is the last wheel
turning tonight,
beneath the steady rain
the fields of wheat lean back
as a dirt road deepens between them.
I have become,
without knowing anything
about becoming,
part of the mud
beneath this wheel,
to be lifted upward
one more night
with this one woman
and turned upon its rim,
to be spun out from the spokes
of its gift
a loose handful of breath,
anointed with the grease and oils from its hub,
to be given back to the mud.