Cornfields

Cornfields full; midst green blades glaze As summer lends a hand with its golden blaze. They sway to the wind, direction it blows Golden cobs of grass in pride simply shows. At sunset they cower to the creeping dark Yet, loses not its gleam and dignified spark. Roasted on spit fire till gold turns light brown Enjoyed with lime, spices in a summer town. In India, we call it Bhutta, sold on streets With Indian spice as afternoon treats. Laid out on a husk of gold and served, To the buyer paying the well-deserved. Many songs have spun the cornfield silk Vietnam has brewed the ear into milk. Corn in summer relished by people all Till summer gives way to October’s fall. Corn sometimes boiled to eat with some salt Or churned in a grinder to make sweet malt. Some use it in cooking, soup, salads and wine The spirit is willing when the cob is refined.