I.
September. Clouds. The first day for wearing jackets.
The corn is wandering in dark corridors,
Near the well and the whisper of tombs.
II.
I sit alone surrounded by dry corn,
Near the second growth of the pigweeds,
And hear the corn leaves scrape their feet on the wind.
III.
Fallen ears are lying on the dusty earth.
The useful ears will lie dry in cribs, but the others, missed
By the picker, will lie here touching the ground the whole winter.
IV.
Snow will come, and cover the husks of the fallen ears
With flakes infinitely delicate, like jewels of a murdered Gothic prince
Which were lost centuries ago during a great battle.