The dry end of the corn silk
stuck to my shoulder
looks like pubic hair,
reminding me again
how much alike
we all are.

I am near the point
of making corn silk tea.
I can tell by how long
I hesitate before dropping
the moist strands in the
compost bowl.
I did not rub them
against my face today
as I usually do,
pressing their soft chill
to my cheek.
I could make corn silk tea,
I thought as the translucent fibers
fell on top of the basil stems.
Making a mental note to
research how it is done.

I have been saving corn husks
for years.
I thought I was ready to quit
but I see today I am not,
just yet.
There is no hope
I will ever make this much
corn husk paper.

But I am sure it will go
the way of the onion roots
I used to save.
One day I will quit
and some time later
I will notice I have done so.

the onion root collection began
because the onions I was buying
at the time
had roots too luxurious
to even consider throwing them away.
“You are what you eat,”
I wrote at the time,
“I need to eat roots.”
I was in a deep contemplation of rooting and rootedness
and rootlessness at the time.
I studied it as I do
in a plain and simple way
(albeit obsessive),
gathering onion roots
in a basket on the kitchen table.

I wove the roots I gathered
into a basket I made.

I had a bit of a dalliance
with onion skin and garlic skin
but it was never really necessary
as the roots and husks were,
merely something I thought
I would do.

What is to become of all this,
all us.