Tornado

The cornfield felt a need to write
its truth in growing green, to lend
syntax and order to each row.
Where ragweed tried to blur the sense,
it punctuated ends of speech
with a tall, straight logic designed
to harvest meaning . . . till the sky
turned black before the vacant mind
of wind, a roaring funnel shape
that clawed stalks and rows and field
into one blotted garbled word
only an idiot could read.