The Waster

The stalks still stand erect and the tassels wave,
But the milky ears are ripped and fouled, I am able
To guess a masked raccoon as the night marauder
Who makes my sweet corn patch his private table.

All crops approved by a farm (and this is the truth)
Have an enemy with a prosperous eye to catch
The auspicious moment, when time is ripe, to dishonor
Whatever eggs have been put in the nest to hatch.

When weeks of fog rot corn, or the scorching sun
Wilts grass, I accept the heavens’ rebuke, the hurt
Wills no deliberate malice, but this is a waster
Who tramples my sweet corn with animal feet in the dirt.