Maize Leaves

We know the green we’ve seen the gold,

But what is left when maize grows old,

Is it worth the time of day,

To change your view and see this way?

To reach the top or dig below,

Is not the average way to go,

But take a median center field,

Artistic curtains are revealed,

The crinkled browns and musty stench,

Of roasted maize when rainfalls drench,

Stark abstract light and eerie form,

Disintegrating grace adorns.

©Philip Holden

2003

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