While going home, you emerge.
The corn in half shorn fields is paper dry,
crimped leafed, brushed black tips.
The beans were taken weeks ago –
their stubbled stalks ending in ditch bramble.
Under a low November sky, rain pressed fields
line roadsides miles in passing and passed.
Dark and undulating against the tumbling gray,
the Canada migration pushes south –
away from winter winds and snow to open waters,
furrowed forage and dropped bounty.
Your harvest memorial cuts through:
Sunday stories at dinners and after,
garden lore passed in spring planting,
morels and perch stones, sweet summer fruit,
fresh earth brushed from new potatoes –
our family narrative planted deep in Iowa soil.
The grace of a long autumn – the peace of sleep.
These whispering husks remember you.
The geese’s flight – a comfort in your passing.