The phone rings. "Corn's in," says the farmer's wife
so I take my biggest boiling pots and cut over to the farm
where, on the terrace, wait four large bags stuffed
with cobs, their green bodies firm, their hair like silk.
The sun is tipping into the pond. Clouds catch fire
and glow like lanterns. In the pale, warm light we
husk the corn, pulling the long green leaves from
yellow kernels, each one as plump as a baby's cheek
and sweet, so sweet we can't help but nibble.
Shucking corn is like good conversation. You start
with generalities, husks, and tear them away
to get to the kernel of what you're thinking. In the end,
you have something different than what you started with;
no longer useful coverings, heaps of silken threads, and in your hand
an ear, in your mind a pearl. All of life is a metaphor for something
else. Corn can stand in for communion if you want it to.