Her freckled grin flashes
as she shucks Indian corn—
the cobs fall into metal pots.

Distance draws her
in morning's cornfields—
calm she is, like an auburn river.

Her anticipation is evening
dancing, blue-blushing in sprinkled lights—
her shadow moving on silo walls.

Where is she if not caught here
in rough roadside taverns—
where if not singing laments of love?

In myriad hay mows she hides,
and she gleans her well-worn repetition—
in anger's slow, dry harvest.

© 2010 by Gary Busha.
Used with the author's permission.