[Two sonnets; no rhyme, no scheme]
In an ordinary cornfield
I saw you stood tall
as though some gift from Oklahoma.
I was driving a car built during the first war
and because it was so old, and thus slow also,
I saw you clearly and stopped
without the slightest sense of decision.
You were not moving
but were calmly stood instead
as though having all along expected me.
At first I took my silly leather shoes off
feeling certain that they marked me somehow as a cityboy
but then I realized that the corn stalks
were not to be walked upon with bare feet.
Looking again, I saw you up to your waist in yellow
as though a mermaid of the plains there waiting.
I called out, but your smile, softly given, said:
Surely you’ve not come this far for such simple talking?
We ate lunch, bread of course, but also Gouda cheeses
and small eggs stuffed strangely with duck.
Finally you said, “When you stand entirely still
do you hear me calling your name?”
Confused I said, “But how do you know it,”
and you smiled again, as though at a serious small child
and whispered, “I’ve always known it.”
There was no-one else for a thousand miles
perhaps more than a thousand at that
and I was hearing you perfectly.