Rising Through the Clouds

The way through the clouds skirts a great unknowing the way through the corn offers solitude boundaries the contours of the true self my grandmother sows the seeds by hand stooped over in her faded cotton dress she cannot see where the seeds land where her work ends where she must stand against the wind in my mind I comfort her behind her blurry glasses but find only watery blue eyes When she died I drove through the night to prove my place in her scattered legacy a seed tossed to the wind without her blessing so many ways through the corn so many dead ends the shallow irrigation canals ease the thirst of the plants pushing blindly to the sun until only a life wrapped in green seems possible they cannot know the main stalk breaks beneath the hoe After the burial I did not hum the old hymns I did not see her rising through the clouds that way is unknown but like eager ears of corn thrusting for the sky she looked heavenward a pilgrim merely passing through In the bedroom of her tidy home I found a pair of glasses chipped and scratched held them up to the sun through the thick lenses a fire sparked in the dry overgrown rows smoldering against an errant seed so eager to rise but not knowing where to grow

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