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Description

The Golden Corn Before the Storm

We are the front line still carrying-on,
Never ceasing where war surrounds each dawn,
Surprises never last forever though,
It longs for yet another Summer throw,
To imprint the presence of mind, today,
Taking hold where the wheat begins to sway,
Between two Sycamore's guarding my will,
Framing impending storm surging downhill,
The stance of a mid-August spring-fed-step,
Halts at those distant growls of Bertha's pep,
That great storm surge of Atlantic crossing,
Swells these cornfields sending kernels tossing,
To squeal merciful in updrafts' control,
We, enthralled yet powerless on the whole,
Silently remind with such wonderous fact,
Of survival's art remaining in tact,
If only exposed roots could be seen,
And not overrun by all that's been,
Caught again and again on battlegrounds,
The God of the storm laying down his rounds,
Restores a feast of harvesting the faith,
Beside season's branch one moment saith,
Brace and resolve to swim against the tide,
Lapping where golden memories preside,
We cannot be sure what may come ashore,
Only that life has no time to ignore.

11 August, 2014
©2014 Daniel Brooks-Laurent

Description

The Golden Corn Before the Storm

We are the front line still carrying-on,
Never ceasing where war surrounds each dawn,
Surprises never last forever though,
It longs for yet another Summer throw,
To imprint the presence of mind, today,
Taking hold where the wheat begins to sway,
Between two Sycamore's guarding my will,
Framing impending storm surging downhill,
The stance of a mid-August spring-fed-step,
Halts at those distant growls of Bertha's pep,
That great storm surge of Atlantic crossing,
Swells these cornfields sending kernels tossing,
To squeal merciful in updrafts' control,
We, enthralled yet powerless on the whole,
Silently remind with such wonderous fact,
Of survival's art remaining in tact,
If only exposed roots could be seen,
And not overrun by all that's been,
Caught again and again on battlegrounds,
The God of the storm laying down his rounds,
Restores a feast of harvesting the faith,
Beside season's branch one moment saith,
Brace and resolve to swim against the tide,
Lapping where golden memories preside,
We cannot be sure what may come ashore,
Only that life has no time to ignore.

11 August, 2014
©2014 Daniel Brooks-Laurent