corn too tall

62 years in this place, I think, that's what they tell me,
a white man with a boy's heart, bones and back bent,
forever crossing the road, looking for a place,
I talk to myself, already dead but never born,
how can you defeat me, since I am the dirt you tread on,
and holds you up, the litter from the trees, that feeds the earth,
my eyes, blue like the sky, my tears, falling like rain
onto corn grown too tall for their Fourth of July,
now I wait for the evening lull, to beseech the Spirit
with my song, lifted like dust and carried by wind
from the sound of the Drum,

"O' Great Spirit, please, help us, help us all "