Like a summer wind walking through a cornfield,
your hands reshape
tall stalks that had no intention
of being moved. Today, more than corn
feels like
corn. As the moon takes his hold on the braggart
in yellow,
can't you can feel something moving around
and through your normal, like
a scythe separating
wish/want/from/real/now, can't you feel something
trying
to blossom inside like a tulip? I can. Every
time the wind walks through
my past and my present
I feel something strange and wholesome walking
with
the wings of the wind, walking around a
corn field in the middle of the
night. Hear the
gust and crack of the corn against the still
of my
soul.