Fable

Once upon a time

there was a stalk of wheat
that could speak. 
It had a story to tell.
It grew up whispering
of its future as bread,
and when it fell
before the reaper,
before the winnower
and the miller,
it carried its whisper
into the flour and the dough
and the bread
that was soon eaten
by a hungry child. 
The child grew up
with that spare voice inside,
listened to it whisper,
but never let anyone else know.

The child grew
to be an adult, aged,
then one day fell silent
before the gray press of age.

It so happened in those days
that a traveler stopped by the roadside
near where the wheat had once grown
and the once-child had just died.

The traveler
sat down to rest
beneath a tree. 

He grew hungry
for bread,
and approached a small house nearby
to offer a few coins for whatever
might be offered.

The house was abandoned,
but on a table in the kitchen
was a loaf of golden bread. A knife
lay beside it, and the traveler
took up the knife to slice the bread.

A thin voice spoke and said,
“Name this bread Isaac
before you cut.”

The traveler was not unlearned
and knew that voice, knew its story;
also knew that while there was a reprieve
at the end of the tale,
one could not count on that happening
twice. 

He picked up the knife
and shouted, “Isaac, I adore you!”
as he cut deep through the crust.

As he ate,
in a field
many miles away
a new stalk of wheat began
to whisper and grow,
and a weaning child
began to cry for bread.

Moral:

Stories have a way
of finding the thread
they most desire,
and someone will always arrive
at the right moment
to complete it, to change it
and carry it forward,
even when it seems
that the tale will be lost forever.