from irregular windbeats of passing cars,
a plot of blown sunflowers,
Gusts from trucks will surely snap
these husk remains
of the D.O.T. roadside beautification plan.
Past the bridge,
a burn of orange marigolds
already chars a patch of highway
as field harvesters choke up dust.
Beyond the fading town
a horse and wagon walk their rows,
a boy balancing the load
of bundled corn stalks
growing with the rhythmic pitchfork toss
of the farmer keeping pace beside,
patient work until the field is clean
well past dark, two lamps bobbing side to side.
This mute anachronism falls behind
from where I watch with windows shut,
wondering if harvest dust
will settle in the lungs of the cornfield boy?
Cheryl
Emerson
October,
2013
