Driving Iowa 163

The horizon: corn fields

always corn fields stretching

brown unending waves

of brown waves waiting

patiently for the sounds

of harvest waves rolling                                       

rolling toward each other

because nothing

else is left I sail on waves

not feeling the waves

the leaves brown

and brittle tear at my skin.

Harvest Thanks

He stands, watches;
Studies the stubble
In the field,
Stubble to keep
Soil intact,
Protecting;
Something like the
Stubble on his face.
She stands by his side.

It wasn’t the life
She thought she’d want then.
It was now, though.

It’s done, he says,
By the barest, glancing
At dark clouds
Threatening cold white.
Thought we might
Have to turn
The combine into
A snow plow.
But we made it.

She touches his
Relief, his gratitude,
His faith.

She links her arm through his,
Leaning into his side.
We did, she says,
We made it.
God is faithful,
Always.
She touches the gray
Beginning to drift
From his temple.

The first flakes of icy white
Kiss their faces,
Lightly.