Innocence, this silk, these stalks,

the tassels sleek as wet pom poms

split-end dry when ripe.

Then my father & I play hide & seek

amid elegant green leaf curls

& the checkerboard rhombuses

of high sun flowers.

Next we feel the ears, squish off worms,

test textures, pick.

Whiteness bleeds to yellow,

the kettle’s deep steel, cool in August,

cool as a well’s, the old nearby hand pump

of resources rusting.

 

We sit on back steps,

stones rough as Oak’s bark-wisdom,

& morning glories lifting life up

like lollipops licked.  In one pot is the maize,

in another, its stripped skins, our voices,

a brook murmuring for a hundred Summers

& longer, beyond however long the lasting

of our rituals goes on.

 

Eternity too is my mother frittering in kernels.

the rows sliced to gold pearls, the boiling oil

or the freezer packets.

 

How such recipes-in-process

are palimpsests, are pentimenti still.