Alchemy

Under the dead-brown detrius of Winter
Lies the cool, blood-red clay
Into which, in concert with the sweet season of Spring,
We push the yellow seeds of corn
And go and await their birthing.
In Summer, the blades spring up from the loam
And reach for the sun's warm calling
Until golden tassles appear above
And the ears grow their silky sweaters.

There, one of the mules got loose
And made his way to the calling of the cornfield
And lopped the ears off
From several tall stalks
With his enormous teeth
Before we caught sight of his crime
And returned him to the dark, musty stable
And his penitence.

Where, hopefully chastened from the urgings of his larcenous heart,
The old mule found his way
To a dark, cool corner
And relieved himself of his ill-gotten corn load
And returned to his stall.

Several months later,
A crisp, green blade crept up from his forgotten pile
Where bright fire-red fruit
Soon sprang up from the holy bush
To augment our suppers in the late Summer sunset.

So God will bend our wayward heels
And turn our crimes to goodness in time.
A simple sign, a small miracle from the dusty dunghill, again.