Poet’s Corner-Plowing Corn

PLOWING CORN

Allowed, I followed man-made rows

from road to wood, and wood to road,

I weeded seedlings… plants… until

too tall to plow.

He did not teach me how to plan a field,

to make straight rows,

to finish ends.

I learned that on my own.

Squinting to a place far out,

a chosen point–

a post, a barn, the trunk of some odd tree–

I held the tractor to its course.

Hand to hand and back again, I’d gauge,

by tractor tire or tractor hood,

or rows — to give my neck a rest —

from clod to clod I’d right the wheel.

My father sowed many a crooked row;

he thought each straight,

until he saw the yield —

my brothers’ fields, the same.

They have cornfields of their own, you know —

he saw to that —

Tradition. Land. The name.

We all expected that.

Straight rows do not a farmer make.

I dream I’d run the rows all side to side,

zigzagging them, or in one rotation,

circle in, or out. Put in new fence rows.

Perhaps that’s why, allowed,

I followed man-made rows.

( There was a time I could have asked. )

But then, perhaps not.

By Donna Rice

First publisher, Pudding House Publications

Second, Art-to-Art Palette Journal/Vol 19, No 1, 2007




Published by on March 2013. Filed under Art-to-Art Palette Journal, Poet's Corner dept. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. Both comments and pings are currently closed.

Comments are closed







VOICES

AAMG CLASSIFIEDS