A poem by Derek Sheffield. From the print edition Like Tweet Print Subscribe Donate Now A life of bending low to drop a seed and pat it home, of striding back and forth to hoe and water and wait. The rows run straight as ever as Uncle’s prized corn grows in the same squared ground since before I was born. What do they mean? Those sun-struck afternoons after church we gathered in the grass beside his rows to talk and sing and scoop buttery kernels steaming onto plates.