It rises 140 feet above ground,
jutting upward like an awkward mushroom
painted white, its tank boasting our little
town's proud name - Greenfield.

And there really are green fields here, too.
Corn and soybeans, mostly,
rotated to help preserve the soil.

Corn depletes, soybeans replenish.

The water tower stands high on its hill
like a watchman, guarding the crops, buildings, and houses,
policing the streets leading in and out of town.

Flocks of teenagers have tried to climb to the top,
but I know of no one who made it all the way.
Simon Griswald once fell off and broke his leg.
He was the high school quarterback.

No state title that year.

Now they've put a fence around the base of the tower.
It's been yanked down several times,
twice just last month.

I think someone may reach the top soon.

They'll hurl their gut a time or two on the way up,
and when they reach the tank, they'll heave themselves
over the guard railing, nearly loosing their grip,
probably hurling again.

Then they'll pull themselves upright and gaze out, beyond it all.
Baseball diamonds, side streets,
barns, churches, and houses like mine.
Corn and soybeans - green fields far and wide.

I can imagine the view, but I'd never climb that tower.
It's for those who have no sense of terror, no fear of anything
that doesn't keep them flat on the earth, stable and sound.
They'll feel the victory, but then, who will understand their glory?

Only the water tower will know.