cornfield islands

far out in the corn field behind our house
is a patch of old trees & tall grass. 
crooked limbs. sometimes they look
like a chorus. other times, a butcher room. 
from a distance they form an island.
i've never seen anyone visit but once
i witnessed one of the old farm dogs, 
running across the freshly tilled field
to reach the island. i wonder what he finds there.
if the foxes gather beneath the trees
to worship. if there are stories etched 
in the soil. i tell my partner sometimes
about my desire to reach the corn field island.
he always begs me not to. i think i would
have to go by moonlight. a soft blueish glow
cast across the wintering crops. my shadow,
tripled by distant porch lights & ghosts.
my fear is that once i reached that land
that i would never want to leave. 
that slowly the corn island would drift farther
& farther away from our house. once day
there would be nothing but hills & corn
from as far as i could see. would you be able
to find me? would i maybe once day
meet the farm dog, a bell in his mouth
like an escaped acolyte. i see other corn field islands
when we drive through pennsylvania's shoulders. 
i wonder if they tempt other farmers
& their neighbors. if maybe they act liked
a string of beads leading to the mouth
of something eternal. i pulled over 
on the side of the road once just to stare
at one that looked particularly radiant 
& lush. the engine clinked behind me. 
i don't know how i managed to leave.