The Eyes

The eyes are not the windows of the soul
Ask anyone who’s ever been near death
Sight’s sense burns out when one has lost control
And only lives by autonomic breath
The ears remain awake in coma’s shade
Though ears do not admit the gold of light
No human form exists with windows made
To show the soul through simple sound or sight
So what shall we with metaphors extol?
What sense should be apprised above the rest?
Can words describe the sanctum of the soul?
What part fills some superlative like best?
The words I write are windows, read and see
They say the Word is God, and I agree.


I scanned the state for amber waves of grain
But all I saw was verdant fields of corn
The road was long, but I could not complain
It seemed like this was where deep green was born
The birth and growth of food to feed the world
Is like a shining sea, within my land
The leaves and stalks are living flags, unfurled
The fill the artist’s eyes and farmer’s hand
I know the purple mountains lie ahead
Beneath the spacious skies, where beauty reigns
For now I’ll stick with Iowa, instead
And write about her wide and fruited plains
I scanned the state and marveled at her charm
Much more than just a road, a field, or farm.