Sweet
by Gwendolyn Mauroner
The first weekend in October
brought the last corn
of the season to market. We bought
two bushels and shucked them
in the yard, peeling back layers
as the cat chased silk strands
through chrysanthemums. In the kitchen,
I cut kernels from the cobs and they flew
like fireflies across the room, speckling
the countertops and my apron,
clinging to my fingertips;
amber jewels in a shallow bowl.
The cat came in with silks strewn
across her whiskers, and you laughed
and leaned in to lick a kernel
still stuck to my glowing cheek.