From a Midwest Motel Window

Across the field and far beyond,
Twin elevators rise. They say,
With concrete pride, that grain–au fond–
Lies at their feet. Some Pharaoh may

Have raised them to this height, these sleek
Grey columns turning almost white
In noonday sun. Soaring, they speak
Of other things, no doubt: of light

That leads the eye toward Heaven, high
Above, of stewards here that seek
To store up bread on Earth. The sky
Around them knows their worth, and, meek

And blue, recedes to let them show
Their faith in what cannot be topped:
A neon cross prepared to glow
When night comes on, and God's sun's stopped.