Austin Robert Smith

The Corn Crib
 
Always the thought then of the corn asleep.
The grin of yellow kernels through the husks
Like the teeth of children spent from playing
 
Glowing through parted lips. But if sleeping,
Who sang it to sleep? Whose foot rocked the crib?
Who kissed its forehead? Who looked in on it
 
In the dead of night? And when the corn is
In the dark ground, who will it fall to to
Figure out what should be done with the crib?