I sit on rim of the world, the edge of a cornfield, and only hear wind in corn.
October rustles the leaves of the dead still standing.
Dead corn leaves, thousands, touch, like bows across strings — make music like water running, like water falling on stones, the rattling of the bones. Tassels, dried and brown, bow. Grey clouds track low, heading east.
Dry withered leaves sing hymns of living water in autumn’s chapel and I find my place.
All the lost pieces find their place.
The silence and the song exhilarate. I can feel their coursing; the tingle to the tips, the rush.
Strands of hair fly on the chorus. I am small and stilled and alive.
There is a noise to the world and it is not the flickering screens of cyber chatter, the bing of inboxes, the intones of phones. There is a wind whispering, playing the world awake, stirring us to an awed quiet. There is here.
I stand long in the storm, stand still in the storm…. listening to the wind in corn.
Nothing in all creation is so like God
Repost from the archives as the wind blows hard here this October morning and I feel very small and quiet
Photos: our sea of corn behind the house