HUSK                                      Psychological Perspectives,  2002, Issue 44

Late fall I think of her,

how her eyes melt when she cries,

and her voice breaks into a peal of bells.

When the irascible scarecrow

perches on its stilts,

and the trees toss down their last

copper colors,

I wander out to the garden,

pass through the still-standing corn rows.

The husk which is most golden

is the one my sister rests in.

It is like a little boat about to slip

into the choppy, blue-green water.

              *    *

Sweet corn, teach me

that I might speak of our lives—

my sweater on the hook,

wrapped around my sister’s life.