Rusted Hymns for What Remains

Rusted Hymns for What Remains

Posted by Ron Schock on Sunday, April 21, 2024

In the hush of the high grass,

where the wind combs silver over rusted spines,

I stand among the fallen giants—

wheels once turning, now crowned with thorns of steel,

their tines reaching skyward like forgotten prayers

that no hand will ever answer.

Time has eaten the edges clean.

The great disc lies split, a heart caved in,

its iron flesh peeling back in silent surrender

to the patient hunger of seasons.

Chains dangle like broken rosaries,

swaying softly, counting years instead of beads.

I see myself in these machines—

once sharp, once driven hard across the earth,

cutting paths through stubborn soil,

harvesting what the sun and rain allowed.

Now the body rusts from the inside out,

joints stiffen, bearings seize,

and the grass rises indifferent

to claim what labor left behind.

The tire in the foreground, half-buried,

still wears its tread like a memory of roads,

yet it will never roll again.

So too my own steps grow heavier,

slower, circling the same small plot of days,

leaving deeper grooves that fill with rain

and vanish by morning.

Out there, the hills keep their distance—

soft, unchanging, indifferent witnesses

to every harvest and every ruin.

They do not mourn the broken harrow

or the man who once guided it.

They simply wait, as I wait,

for the next slow turning of the light.

And yet, in this quiet decay,

there is a strange grace:

the way the metal, even shattered,

still holds the shape of purpose.

The way the tines, though bent,

still point toward something higher

than the dirt that will one day cover us all.

I linger here,

a shadow among shadows,

listening to the rust sing its low,

melancholy hymn—

the only hymn left

for what was useful,

what was strong,

what is becoming

beautiful

in its long,

unhurried

letting go.

Categories: Life Talk

Tagged: Life Talk