Prairie Poetry   
  The Shucking Of The Corn

It isn’t the immense river
but the tiny door
that draws my eye.

The Mississippi is wide and brown,
roaring as you’d expect in a flood. In Nebraska
we saw a Little League outfield fence poking
from the water. Iowa cornfields were buried
tassel-deep. Here at the Illinois border,
a few miles from the President’s
emergency visit, I see a house whose rear door
is barely three feet high.
                            It’s like a half-door
opening onto the muddy currents. The whole house
is short; backyard trees
have no bare trunk, merely burst into leaf
from their wet lower branches.

                                   Only the Mississippi
looks natural, unfurling its broad palm,
brown fingers tapping waterfront windows.

  Stephen Stamp
  Copyright © 2006 Stephen Stamp
  Author Index | Biographies | Support Prairie Poetry | Month Index | Year Index | Guestbook | Home