Corn
No harvest flutters in this concrete land,
Save golden ones in golden cans
Like bottled hope in dried up hearts.
Grown up corn end up in supermart,
Packaged bundles of plastic warmth.
They stand in rows: soldiers of commercial reality
But yesterday I saw a stalk,
As tall as jiminy, as stray as talk,
But it was free in its yellow glory,
Praised the sun and basked daily.
Amidst withered gardens of wintered bloom.
It knew its role its golden splendour,
It brought life and hope with song and laugher,
And lived and died and bore yet another,
That more may take its place.
Joey Loren
双手聚写
(07102007)