Cornhuskers | Page 4

a red moon comes down; and the willows drowse and sleep on the shoulders of the running water.
EARLY MOON
THE baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west. A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon. One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers. foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams. Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West? Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?--no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail??Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?
LAUGHING CORN
THERE was a high majestic fooling?Day before yesterday in the yellow corn.
And day after to-morrow in the yellow corn?There will be high majestic fooling.
The ears ripen in late summer?And come on with a conquering laughter,?Come on with a high and conquering laughter.
The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse.?One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalk?And a spot of red is on its shoulder?And I never heard its name in my life.
Some of the ears are bursting.?A white juice works inside.?Cornsilk creeps in the end and dangles in the wind.?Always--I never knew it any other way--?The wind and the corn talk things over together.?And the rain and the corn and the sun and the corn?Talk things over together.
Over the road is the farmhouse.?The siding is white and a green blind is slung loose.?It will not be fixed till the corn is husked.?The farmer and his wife talk things over together.
AUTUMN MOVEMENT
I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
FALLTIME
GOLD Of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon,?Canada thistle blue and flimmering larkspur blue,?Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,?Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,?Why do you keep wishes on your faces all day long,?Wishes like women with half-forgotten lovers going to new cities? What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds, crying down on the north wind in September, acres of birds spotting the air going south??Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way?
ILLINOIS FARMER
BURY this old Illinois farmer with respect.?He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois cornfields. Now he goes on a long sleep.?The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib, The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands must dream of Illinois corn.
HITS AND RUNS
I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ball players grappling the Rock Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness.?And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown.?And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.
VILLAGE IN LATE SUMMER
Lips half-willing in a doorway.?Lips half-singing at a window.?Eyes half-dreaming in the walls.?Feet half-dancing in a kitchen.?Even the clocks half-yawn the hours?And the farmers make half-answers.
BLIZZARD NOTES
I DON'T blame the kettle drums--they are hungry.?And the snare drums--I know what they want--they are empty too. And the harring booming bass drums--they are hungriest of all.
The howling spears of the Northwest die down.?The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song. A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.
SUNSET FROM OMAHA HOTEL WINDOW
INTO the blue river hills
The red sun runners go
And the long sand changes
And to-day is a goner
And to-day is not worth haggling over.

Here