Season
Rust is ripeness, rust,
And the wilted corn-plume
Pollen is mating-time when swallows
Weave a dance
Of feathered arrows
Thread corn-stalk in winged
Streaks of light. And we loved to hear
Spliced phrases of wind, to hear
Rasps in the field, where corn-leaves
Pierce like bamboo slivers.
Now, garnerers we,
Awaiting rust on tassels, draw
Long shadows from the dusk, wreathe
The touch in wood-smoke. Laden stalks
Ride the germ's decay-- we wait
The promise of the rust.