along the byway
to adulthood
an apple tree bloomed . . .
now I pick its fruit
with weathered hands
I’m in rows of corn, running my fingers through the rustling leaves, the scent of earth and pollen in the air. They grow so quickly, these sturdy stalks, taller than my head. Following the contours of the hills, the trail bending and twisting, I discover that the time just before harvest is a pretty good time to get lost.
I burrow into the field, its cocoon wrapping around me until the rest of the world fades away. Every so often a red-winged blackbird stops by to keep me company as we share the last days of summer.
Some people look at a cornfield and see just a field. I see a haven, ripe with adventure and silky ears to whisper to. Turn left at the ladybug and follow the sun; a kid knows the very best places to hide. The secrets of the maize envelope me. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the roots and tassels, pausing along the winding path laid out for me.
following the footsteps
of a wandering child
the poet
finds a verse
scribbled in the soil
