Shucking Corn

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.