Feminine maize, the millennia’s inheritance.

Time always matters, especially … Now.

Now the rush of spring, now summer’s wet heat, now the fruiting fullness, now the drying, now some place for her, now some ending … now … firmly above the soil, the storms passed, the harvest to come.

NOW ... an edited story:

Maybe, if we reach completion … respect.

NOW, just a gentle breeze, still warm autumnal breeze, now picture (it is easy) the cumulus gentle pillow rising full wonder, holding up Heaven ( or the heavens, if you prefer). That which lifts highest, those are storms; violent heat coursing to the top, the cool reaches of tornadic whirling wonder:  a place of immutable divine rules, a full presence, a remembrance, the cosmos or so it is called.

Now a chill, if only for an evening, a dryness to hold the virtue un-moldy, a dryness to bury, a burial to crack, the remains of a spent voluptuous youth in multiple greens, the sun-yellowed green chartreuse moist sexual veil now furry purple brown. Bulbous pillows suspended rain, then it came; invested spectral sun and mineral movement, now sugar to starch and to dry, the silks purple brown tipped dusty dry brown; dry, longer lasting than rainbows, if a bit smaller and more serviceable, finished and golden.

Now land plots, tasseled waves, the swirled breeze, the rippled dust flows over endless acres, numbered now to the smallest unit.  Now, the unsheathed grain streams – filling mundane hoppers, trucks, shiny sullen mechanical towers.

Now, a dollared industry.

 

 

 

Now it is seldom for beauty or poetic contemplation, now lacking the intimate wonder of that which passed forward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, immortalization – the respectful pedestal, the static story – her inheritance.