The Cornfield

Some see shadows at the gates. 
Some see droplets of light 
tumbling in the dirt. 
Some see skittish, windswept leaves, 
touching. 
Some see paths to adventures, 
games of Follow the Leader,
a chain of holding hands
maneuvering twists and turns. 
Some see the passages of time, 
summers of yesterday,
their childhood spirits calling out. 
Some see what it might be like to vanish.
Some see the last days of summer,
the striking contrast of green and blue,
the million golden fireworks.