Cornfield, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Cornfields and Crows, Vincent Van Gogh (1890)

                           Cornfield

The rolling, cooling air was moving in
Bringing with it grey cotton in the sky.
My body showing its October skin
Freckled, speckled sand and extremely dry.

Standing before me they command their ground
Soldiers by the thousand within my view.
Flaying and wailing cried a morbid sound
Be but one victor when the day is through.

Aggressively attacked the left, it’s war!
Superior power, mowing them down.
No, but before me appeared countless more.
Was steadfast, mowing down those stalks of brown.

Cleaned the tractor and all its cutting gear,
The cornfield now sleeps ’til early next year.