Every autumn, we follow.
The geese turn south, we face north
and begin building this sturdy fortress
cleverly designed to hold back blizzards.
They lift off over fields edged in cornstalks—
remnants the threshers missed, or ragged stalks
who stay behind to serve as markers,
to whisper their raspy message of the road
New Ideas planted in the minds of commuters.
Oh, one morning a different shaft of sunlight
illuminates our work. Now we can
hear that quiet hum, which has been
humming along the cornrows for a long time.
What we worked on so long and built so well
of whatever scraps were left behind?
Oh look at it. Not a fortress, but a boat.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 