The Cornfield
The cornstalks vanished overnight
Shaven fields once flowing, green and gold
Now Dad’s evening whisker stubble
Ghost limbs of the cornfield
Flocks of nomadic Ravens
Feast on the invisible
And scowl with those empty black eyes
Impervious to man’s judgment
And I think,
There is nothing as beautiful
Than the first snow on a barren field
Shadows playing with the evening light
And dance among the vacant mounds
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