Cornfield
by Gail
This wide bed is our cornfield,
fallow and blanket-green,
you and I its farmers.
In the winter of our desire
the winds of our words
rattle the dried leaves
left on the stalks.
The land sleeps,
and we sleep in it,
separately, like tramps
who are nowhere else welcome.
When the new breezes wake us
to the spring's duties, we seed
the field with the sureness of love,
and with the summer heat
the passionate corn ripens
beneath its green veiling,
our cries echoing
like those of the crows.
