Polyhymnia

walks between the beds critical of eye, noting the way the leaves of corn have curled upon themselves, rattling in hardly any breeze at all.

They'd like to make believe it's Autumn now, would they? Playing at getting past the part where seed heads form, waving their silky hair, and then depart, leaving the leaves bereft

of any purpose but to leave this world -- except, of course, they don't: that is the gift of mulch. She brings the hose and couples to its end a yellow whirligig, made to sing

the holy song of water to the leaves. Today, green fullness. Tomorrow, living grain.