WATCHING CORN GROW

Joan Patterson, Acme, lives on a Chestnut Ridge farm, where she writes poetry and essays, paints animal and child portraits and raises farm animals. “Watching Corn Grow” was first published in the booklet “Into the Foothills 2000,” published by the former Foothills Writers Group, of which she was a member.

MAY

The field so bare shows nothing now.

What wonders might the earth conceal?

What magic touch could soon reveal

The growth of seed with sun and rain

And skill of man with careful plow?

  JUNE

The days go by and seed will know

The reasons why the sprouting grows

With rain of gentle flow

The gentle rain is best, you know—

Just enough and seeds will sprout

But not too much to wash away the row.

My watching mind asks day by day,

Will tiny root now grasp its way

Down through the earth and find such food

As leaf will need to pierce the ground,

And feel the light and air around?

 

It happens now, my waiting ends

Some tiny leaves, in even rows

Are seen to send,

A pattern flowing,

Out across the field.

  JULY

Falling raindrops, shining light,

So fast the reaching, greening sight—

It seems the night must also share

The right to claim a credit there.

No wonder I must stop and stare.

  AUGUST

The stalks now stand so straight and high

And spears of green point to the sky

While leaves wave at the passers by.

Closely marching lines of green

In close formation can be seen

Up the hill and through the hollow

’Til my eye no longer follows

This unending sight, it seems.

  SEPTEMBER

Green spears have turned to fronds somehow

And now a mist of russet glows

Above the patch of green below.

As I watch to see what’s forming,

Small ears against the stems are clinging,

Sink in golden sprouts cascading

From the topmost ends.

  OCTOBER

Harvest time is almost here

And now I can inspect an ear

Of what has filled my days somehow

With wonder at the forces now

Presenting what can only be

A miracle for me to see.

The ear still green

The silk now brown,

I slowly pull leaf layers down

And star to see the golden pearls,

Like glowing treasures of my world.

  NOVEMBER

Colors now are white and gray and chill,

Green growing time is past, up on the hill,

But corn crib full, soon I see

Warming up the sky for me

Through the cold and blowing air,

A vault of corn now gleaming there.