Cornfield Past

Days are lost like buttons

from old coats,

except we never recover them.



When thunder rumbled we shook back the skys

and storys about dying



Tho we never really believed.



Last night a murmur from the ages long ago

broke soft thru an orange dream

and set me on the road home.



All day long I looked up at the sky through windows,

through the sunshine,

through the fog and through my hands;

I was captured once again.



My trail leads on through ghostly air and out upon blue oceans

quivering with sight;

I have found a blue light in the dark wood.



green August corn, cornfields heavy with corn scent
bending and rustling fresh and light
fed by rain and sun,

I could get lost in that

mystic maize of childhood

forever,

again.