blonde girl with my hand— so much like the stalks— taller than I expected yet so much of her is green and razor-edged, she’s topped with silver-white (like kernals, silver queen) “Quiet” as I’m listening, through the rows at sunset, searching but I was telling you “Hush” I need to find, to show her about the spiders, yellow glow—and so black, against this green my neck hurts, my head craned back to seek that black, above; I can wear them, can’t you see? as I pull her through the rows, my shoulders shush past stalks “Shhh...” I say, “Listen to Cassiopeia sing” I turn and see her standing, smiling up at me, covered in tiny sisters of the stars, she has already heard their tendril legs strum silver strings and sing.

small, brown-haired boy — he cannot see and you, taller than he thought, hold his hand, guide him through the field in spring, before the seed is sown “Speak” you say, and listen to tiny, stuttered syllables and when he stalls, you whisper “More” I’m peeling down green leaves “Husks” you need to tell him, to show and the husks? cut crimson creases—so the hair inside gets sticky You smile, knowing “silk,” like spiders spin; seeing hair like he sees; seeing soil the color of his hair, stained red and gold at sunrise but I think we need the seeds knowing “kernal,” you are still, let him shuck and scatter silver “Make a W,” you say “Let me show you” and turning, take his hand, show him how to spread silver queen.

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