Ears of Corn

Easy be this country road

Many a face and hand to hold

Yet harder be the golden trail

Home to more than the common quail

 

And here I stand frail as petals

Lying in the soil mud puddles

Standing in talent’s garden

As the farmer leaves his gate open

 

Big empty cornfield, already raised

Potential taken by potential unfazed

Reaper stands at the front porch

Awaiting the corn to approach

 

Yet healthy melons and squash

Glady roaming among the hogwash

Dodging the old road towards death

And the gardens puddles of Lethe

 

Even when deprived of their years

Began to rise did the ears

To watch the squash roll past

To reminisce of dream’s past

 

Old fertile kernels gifted of substance

Never knew of their true purpose

And lifted their lives, from the waste

From the puddles of Lethe with haste