p o l y h y m n i a
walks between beds
critical of eye, noting the way blades
of corn have curled upon themselves,
rattling in hardly any breeze at all.
They'd like to make believe it's Autumn now,
would they? Playing at getting past the part
where seed heads form, waving silky hair
but then departing, leaving leaves bereft
of any purpose but to leave this world --
except, of course, they don't: that is the gift
of mulch. She brings a hose and couples to
its end a yellow whirligig, made to sing
the holy song of water to those leaves.
Today, green fulness. Tomorrow, living grain.