each ear gives up its clothes reluctantly
overlapping folds hiss when pulled apart
together were a rich green but peeled
the undersides are white, and deeper in
their outsides are as well, the stem snaps off
decisively, fine silk the last reserve
hiding awkward rows of white and yellow
kernels, their manufacture imprecise
in parts not interchangeable, the lines
imperfect like these now remembering
toweling my small son’s damp corn-silk hair
after a bath, his firm creamy skin clean
as tomorrow’s world eager to arrive
the raspberry patch nears its end of yield
in early August, offering only
a hand-full now instead of pints and quarts
I search among the leaves to find a few
small red globes of lined kernels circling stems
much like corn kernels, imperfect mirrors
each of each, together being berry
a like wholeness eludes us even now
at the slow turn of the season, nothing
lacking except release and belief
which would be Life were they not mistaken
for withholding, wish, and expectation
--Don Brandis
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