“Winter Corn,” photograph by Don Graham, 2012. Licensed under Creative Commons.
We ran through crackling corn rows
muddy legs, burning lungs, snow
thin ice on mud
exhalations like explosions of factory steam
skinny arms whipped by icy leaves
solitary endeavors for a team
picking off the man in front
for personal joy
we ran for school
community
identity
finding ourselves in the function of our legs
On the way home, the coach
a one-legged man drove
as if drunk
still trying to find himself
his dreams of running through icy fields
gathered around him
When I came to the stone I turned
Became the scuffed toes of my boots
A man in denim with nail dirt
And purpose in calloused hands
Long handles and gasoline, the grip
On my mind like black tar heroin
And the growl of the boss man
Like a long wall in all directions
Until the blade of my anger struck
Another stone surrounded by shells
And memories of the ocean flooded
My sandbags floating in a high tide
Drifting like jellyfish seemingly
Without purpose but migrating on
To cliffs of dark basalt covered
With verdant and fecund possibility
But, the overwhelming bluffs
Proved a place of turning again
Into the libraries of trail tales
Endless words to ponder and obey
And the stones were on shelves
Each one snarling and forbidding
Until I turned becoming again
The scuffed toes of my boots
