The Cornfield

A shallow wind blew softly over grass
distubring leaves left dying on the lawn,
and bits of ice refracted sun like glass,
the winter tears of fast approaching dawn.
With swollen hands the woman hurries by
towards the distant hulk among the corn
that looms afront the empty turquoise sky.
The crack of frosted fields, and every breath
is roped forever in the cage inside.
Recorded like the songs of daughter Beth,
and silence of the barn that cried her death.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.