The maize is tall and tasseled
The stalks strong and green
Waving as if to a melody.
My sons and I smile to one another,
The sudden shower soothing
The water streaming down our dark faces
Into the black earth.

In the evening we sit at our unpainted tables next to the maize
We drink mescal till late
Savoring the smoky taste,
And joking in our language.
My wife sits on my lap
And though our hair is white
She whispers in my ear.
We smile at our sons
Watching their wives nurse their infants.

In the valley of Tenochtitlan
Hail has felled the maize
The stalks prone like dead warriors.
The men weep as they strip husks
Looking for mature ears.

In the valley of Ixtlahuaca
Father and sons walk among crackling stalks,
Stunted and combustible.
The kernels turn to powder in their hands.

At the foot of the volcano Popocatepetl
The villagers clamber over the lava still cooling,
Looking for a landmark.
Someone spots the tilted belfry
Three miles from where it once tolled.

I place my hand on your bare shoulder
Your face half in obscurity, half in light
Like the morning star.
You smile in your half-sleep.
The chill air of late summer wells over the sill
The sun with her purple rays,
The saltator poised with its black head jutting,
And I with my kiss,
Await your awakening.

August 24th, 2006