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Measuring A Corn Field



The whole world I can measure in this cornfield. Why would I need to go to Indiana or Pennsylvania or Katmandu? Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of the corn is here. Yes Indiana has its rustic temples also ~ as does Kentucky and Idaho, all over the world the sky is wide open and the green and yellow corn is swaying, but why travel when this amber upsurge is before us? Here I can feel the hidden ramparts of a mighty cathedral of music here under my feet, the songs are rough and ready, but they are as good as any prayer. Over there a stand of trees where the green frocks of summer shadow-dance. Each stalk of corn climbs to its highest and my spirit climbs with them, rocking on that sea of wind-waving luster. The mud and dirt here is as good as any, they are just as holy as elsewhere as are all the grubbing creatures in and upon it. This field is a sure-enough atlas it reaches surpassingly deep and high, the roofs of heavens are below us the roots of time delve and sprout here the sky descends to breathe within each breast. This is the land beyond the great river, that river brings the world here, the sun nests here, and the stars appear reflected in our up-turned eyes. We listen to the tilling breeze mapping the whole of creation in just this well formed, well farmed forty acres above and below but also in Michigan and elsewhere.

Copyright © Eric Ashford

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