Corn Stalk Battalion

Scalped, stripped, ramrod straight
they stand at attention in rows
that stretch across a cornfield
of foot-high golden stubble.
Summer's harvest remnants,
they stand, as if waiting to march,
to march without thought,
each stalwart stalk blindly
following the lead of another.

Like a thousand blonde
five-o'clock shadows
or soft, cool, summer buzz cuts,
like corn-fresh marines,
they're suspended somewhere
between fecundity and sterility,
row after row of sentinels
without voice, without power
plodding, compliant, persevering.

Sun beats down, dries the morning dew.
Cool breezes rustle parchment husks
like flags draped over returning coffins.
Pummeling sleet will freeze them,
redeeming rays will thaw and ease,
thaw and ease the constant burden
of the wait through winter's buildup,
its shortening days and ever colder nights
lancing deeply into the heart of each of them.

Soon, deep, deep snow will blanket
the lot, pile flake after flake
with winter rising, rising. until one day
they will all disappear--the whole battalion--
deadened corn stalks abandoned to the coming winter,
with only their tips visible, but soon to be buried
beneath a silent, suffocating siege.