Corn

 

Everything thoughtful has a poem.
Everything that takes a steady minute
or is quiet in its doing
has met a poet in the doing of it
and has somewhere there
been described or made note of.

Corn, for example, it being the season.
The stripping of corn
the cleaning of its leaves off
and all the bits
getting ready for the boiling.
Takes a few moments if done well.

There’s some fiddling and pulling
some breaking and repetition.
All the while knowing exactly
how many there are left to do this with
and also knowing very well
who else is in the house or out
and could be helping you but are not.

The time goes by.

The yellow glans is revealed
small colonel or otherwise.
And we make those involuntary
last few passes along the shaft
jerking at stray shreds of silk
slowing for a moment and thinking
that God must have cooked corn
the day before he worked on Adam
and sat, no poet He, cleaning
and thinking and cleaning.

End of a hard day.
More work to do.

All of art, creation
is said to be derivative
even if directly from nature.

 

 

 

 

 

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