The tiny corn stirs in me an ancient appreciation for its form. It is only 2 inches long but has pulled away from the stalk. The silk 4 feet above it no longer catches the wind. I had cut it all down. I had given up on ever getting corn from this city garden. Despite my inability to nurture it, corn grew. I picked a tiny ear and held it. As if peering at a newborn baby’s diminutive hands and feet, I admired the full and succulent seeds. I salvaged two more ears from the shredded stalks.
It appeals to my neanderthal origins to pluck and eat something while it still lives. Though precious rains carry toxins from factory stacks and pollute my garden, this corn is mine. I need this nourishment. Tired of putting off what I love, what I yearn for, I eat it raw. I have no regrets that I didn’t toss it into boiling water first. It’s as if I am taking a bite out of the garden, the smells, the bees, the singing birds and digesting them all. I am the bear in the blueberries of spring with stained muddy paws and a snout dripping with juice.