Corn On The Cob
From swampland and woods weary creatures arrive,
Their weakening strength is their will to survive.
Of what are they guilty, what possible sin?
Last summer's strong youngsters now struggle to win.
Through belly-deep snow I have watched them come in,
Tired, degraded, malnourished, and thin.
Younger and older, their guide is their nose,
Now reaching the place where their cup overflows,
White tails are flipping, their gratitude shows.
Releasing from hunger, her bucks and her does,
Mother Nature needs help, I have taken the job,
With bushels of sugar beets and corn on the cob.
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Comments about this poem (Corn On The Cob by Connie Yost )
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