picking corn

the stones
set out
to sit upon by my grandmother
may still be there
along
the path, full of honeysuckle
and briar,
that leads into the woods
in north reading.
she would
say, let's rest,
and point
to which stone
she wanted us to move
for her to sit
upon.
she'd light a cigarette
and say,
just five minutes.
but while we're here,
go across that road
to field and pick
us some corn
corn for dinner later.
the farmer won't mind.
six stalks will do.