Standing between rows of cornstalks
I witnessed the knowledge of being.
The stalks do not sulk-
they are rooted firm
though the wind whips of violence
and the sun scorches its tips.
The scent of autumn is abundant,
and all is what it is.
As I walk through,
the dead leaves brush my cheeks
and I pause to cherish its caress.
I turn to the cob beside me
and know that it is the fruit of being.
This field is what it is,
and in so being, is fruitful
for those beyond the field.
It is harvest,
and I see the life and I see the death.
I tear a piece of stalk off
and taste its crackling sinews.
What is fruitful in life
is fruitful in death - they are one stalk.
In the middle of a cornfield I hear the sea.
The wind is my empty shell pressed to the ear.
And I find no shame in
what has been
and what is being.