New Birth
The corn is sweeping low;
her tasseled head is bent,
as dying souls lament
about the waning glow.
This life too quickly fades,
thin mists that pale the glade.
In furrows dark and dry,
the kernels, hard, that fall
beneath the autumn squall,
now lie alone. Awry
the seed the wind propelled
to propagate the veld.
So life reflects the corn
that dies to bloom reborn.
Copyright, August 16, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
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