In Iowa the grain’s gone gold, clumps
Of fruit bulge on the stock, entire fields
Burgeon their life up from the earth
And down from the sun. Who can tell
The precise chemistry of its rupture,
Except to accept its magic, its coming true.
In Sacramento you weep over her corpse,
Her disease riddled body, ripped too
Early from the earth of your home,
Tap roots dried out in the sinking sun.
Joy and grief at the harvest are easy
To figure, but the equating maize
To your daughter, balancing sustenance
With energy, will occupy a dark winter.
Some of Jared Pearce’s poems have recently been or will soon be shared in Marathon, DIAGRAM, Infinity Ink, Poetic Diversity, and Inlandia. His first collection of poems is due from Aubade Press in 2018. He lives in Iowa.