The corn bent down in broken-spined decay
as she thickly squelched her way to what she hoped
was fresher mind, clear of a stuffy day
spent in a house where all resolve had moped.
In movement, mud, cold, steely winter air,
she sought to shed the skin of that day’s self.
She’d bitched at him; she knew she wasn’t fair,
but his acceptance of their place upon life’s shelf
tore anger from her ribs like leonine jaws.
It spewed, it spattered, stained everywhere she walked.
She knew regrets to come should give her pause,
but his patient face made self-possession balk.
So she labored through the frozen field of corn
waiting for redemption to be borne.
-Karin Gustafson
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