There’s lumber in the grass, not wet but great with gravity. Board splash, the falling timber tears blue nets of molecules—sky sliced by ash
unlit but yet it bursts with weight. And then there’s cobs and cobs of yel-low, bowing stalks re-topped with freight, the law-defying corn like bells
hanging in their ringing green husks. And then there’s all those boys who’ve tum-bled with the force on hills at dusk; they played till every limb was numb.
Aaron Rench lives and writes in Moscow, Idaho.
Copyright © 2005 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine. Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.
