Day of the Cornfield

The day of the cornfield all right,
hanging ears kernelled by pollen
pulsing down hollow silks in the
slow ejaculation of creation.
In the book of earth the farmer
throws a giant shadow, his eyes
greedy, hands gnarled like roots.
Now he leans on the gate, strokes his dog,
tired with spent passion. He notes a
rabbit nibbling a fallen ear, a cock pheasant
slips between the rows, he quiets his dog,
his voice stuffed with yellow sounds of corn,
the heavy ears wrapped in their message
of the season.