polished mirrors

Our house is out in a field,
clean, vast and gleaming.
It's like a field of wheat,
one of those time honored,
golden fields of grain.
Every tall and limber
stalk of it letting
sunshine glow from
each and every one of
their husky little top-hats.
Amid vast landscapes,
living beings speed by on
interstate highways looking
out at waving fields of
grain whizzing by,
dotted with what looks from
the viewpoint of the
people in the speeding
car like tiny doll-sized
farmhouses
with a few tall trees clustered
around each one, which are
the only trees to be seen in
any direction, not even so
much as a hedgerow.
Nothing but a clean, vast gleam.
Fields of gold.
How amazing that we can't polish
it into brightly shining mirrors.
If so, we could look into
them un-awakened and watch
wisdom cover over our foolishness.
...