-This poem reflects on wind moving through a summer cornfield, where heat, growth, and abundance become visible as motion and sound.
Across the tall and tasseled rows,
the wind moves green from edge to edge,
a running hush through leaf and blade,
the field made fluid in the sun.
What stood so still a breath before,
now bends and lifts in patterned waves,
as if the land itself had learned,
to answer summer with a voice.
The stalks lean close, then rise again,
their rooted bodies full of sound,
and every shifting line of light,
makes motion out of heat and height.
So much of August gathers here,
not only in fruit, but in grain,
in fields that speak through wind alone,
and turn abundance into song.