As we steamed towards Monhegan Island
on a blissfully warm October morning,
newly in love,
The day blessed us with sun,
calm seas, a charming village and quaint people,
mostly painters.
Now that we have grown what some call old,
and rather quaint ourselves, our love is not yet
middle-aged.
Not an argument for meeting late,
but one way in which late-meeting offers
consolation for the many, early years apart.
Now we know love’s rarity and worth.
The downside is, the love dies young.
J.H. Hall’s background is medical. His poems have appeared in The RavensPerch, descant, Crosswinds, Slipstream, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The Comstock Review and other places. His prose has been The North American Review, TriQuarterly, and others along several collections of his own, most recently, “Chesapeake Reflections.” (Arcadia). He lives in Wayne, Maine.
