Kinds of Honey

Here’s one I wrote a couple years ago, back home in Iowa.

early november

the corn tilts
in the garden.
the dog bites at
empty shucks,
pulls them toward
her until a light
crack breaks the stalk.
I glance over from
where I am digging
the last of the carrots,
the soil wet as clay,
the snappy orange and
purple roots still smelling
fresh as spring.
.
she tosses her head,
tears open those crisp
tawny husks to find
a crumbling white
core. noses and huffs
at the chaff. only
leftover failures.
all the sweet corn
has been savored.
all the colored popcorn
lines the windowsills.
.
and certainly, this is not
the fat golden field corn
that she and our other
dogs steal from
the neighbors, to sit
down with the bright
yellow between their
paws, to chew off each
dry, dented kernel with
a hunter’s satisfaction.