In our daily experiences, there are those moments that seem meaningful somehow, but often we are unable, or lack the time, to assign them words. The sort of words to name and preserve them. Such is the work of poets, and sometimes their memories awaken ours. About 35 years ago, on a visit to Peoria, Illinois, my uncle invited me to drive his sports car—with him in the passenger seat—on a winding country road. I did not have much experience with a clutch, or with sports cars, so when the second bend of a wicked S-turn overwhelmed my inexperience, we plunged into a cornfield. For all this time, I had no way to describe the moment, and so it long ago became lost. In “Corn Ride,” Helen Losse put me back in the car and told me what it was like to see “tall rows … husking past.” Thank you for the words, Helen, and for the found memory.