season

Rust is ripeness,rust And the wilted corn-plume. Pollen is mating-time when shallows Weave a dance of feathered arrows Tread corn-stalks in winged streaks of light.And we loved to hear Spliced phrases of the wind, to hear Rasps in the field, where corn-leaves Pierce like bamboo silvers. Now,garnerers we, Awating rust on tassels, draw Long shadows from the dusk,wreahte The thatch in wood-smoke.Laden stalks Ride the germ's decay- We await The promise of the rust