On many a summer evening, as the dry air began to cool, the children found me in the garden sitting on a picnic chair hidden between rows of corn stalks, munching on cobs of raw sweet corn.  That is as close to bliss as I’ve ever come.  One day I yielded to the impulse to lie on my back in the dirt between the corn rows, close my eyes, and just listen.  It took me years to put the experience into words, but I finally managed (hopefully) with “Summer Corn.”  As the poem seeks to share with an anonymous companion, so now I share with you.

Summer Corn

Lie with me between the rows of summer corn.
Don’t speak, yet.
Listen:
to the raspy hum of bees gathering pollen from pregnant, golden tassels,
to the hoarse soft rubbing of coarse green leaves in the imperceptible breeze,
to the plinking rain of locust droppings upon the soft soil.
Listen:
to the neighbor’s angus wieners bemoaning their separation,
to the pretty chukars heckling from the chicken coop,
to the blood pulsing in your ears, coursing through your brain.
Don’t speak, now.
Reach to touch my hand.
Listen to the world
from within the rows of summer corn.