Jack of Fields

Over the trouble of the corn,
hung from a cross of two by fours,
and ratcheting the sunly hours

is a man of burlap sacks
fraying in the raggy wind
with a grin of safety pins.

All around his denim waist
goes a length of rosy rope
holding up the farmer’s hope

as the crows harass the corn
pop the kernel in its silk
peck the cob, and beak its milk.

As the uselessness of time
ripens for the raider’s rile
breaking stalks and humping piles,

and the man of burlap sacks
frightens nothing under him
smiling with those safety pins.

He only can witness us,
hang from nylon, hang and mourn
over the trouble of the corn,

powerless to stay the truth
(and friend, the truth is always rough).

But sometimes presence is enough.