Corn Fields

Every morning on my way to work I drive past several cornfields that march right up to the edge of Buffalo Road, their long stalks saluting commuters, tassels nodding knowingly in the early light. Over the course of the summer I watched the rich brown earth birth tiny green shoots that quickly grew to full height, the sturdy stalks groaning to produce their quota of 2 pods of seed, nurturing them to maturity as a good mother should.

The rows of tall, rustling, yellow-beige cornstalks, midsections bedecked with husk-swaddled cobs, give you a sense of satisfaction and "all's right with the world." You can almost taste soup simmering in the pot, feel the warm fire on the hearth awaiting the weary traveler. Somewhere just over the next hill the deer are grazing contentedly, a promise that the world is not desolate, the planets still revolve. We decorate our porches and decks with harvested stalks as a reminder that summer was good, our cupboards groan with sustenance, we are ready to weather the hard winter, whatever that may bring. In this uncertain economic landscape, we need to hold on to the constancy of the seasons, everchanging, yet ever the same. Years come and go, each one bringing its own set of yahoos and boo-hoos, but the sun is still in the sky, the ground still brings forth fruit, the world still turns on its axis.

Every morning on my way to work, I thank God for those fields of corn, reminding me that I have a decent roof over my head, healthy food to eat for the day, a satisfying job, family and friends. I return the salute of the soldiers standing watch by the edge of Buffalo Road to let them know I am grateful to be alive.