My corn grows high

in five large black plastic pots on my lānai,
watering, and fertilized with care,
I am satisfied, bear
the slight tremor
in my hands that grows more visible,
so much so that I sometimes hide them when I talk with people,
self-conscious, suspicious they may be staring at this
infirmity
judging me, he
can till soil only in containers on his lānai,
not long furrows, but pretty good,
despite his disability, to do so,
he can, eats well,
I do,
bring the cobs to my mouth
with shaking hands I notice
more, and thanks giving, alone,
with no one watching.