Like shucked corn once
the ears are gone, the husks
remain, dried arrangements
in the wrong season.
Some slumped, sleeping, others
upright, alert to the moment
but only the moment. Zen-like
serenity sets in.
They do not mourn what’s
forgotten. They pass their grief
to us, unintentionally,
of course.
There’s no meanness left in them.
It’s gone to roost. Now their skies
are bluer than they used to be,
their trees more intensely green.
J.H. Hall’s background is religion/literature and medicine. His poems have appeared in descant, Crosswinds, Slipstream, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The Comstock Review and other places. His essays and short fiction have been anthologies and several collections of his own, most recently, “Chesapeake Reflections.” (The History Press). He lives in Wayne, Maine.
