Harvest
Harvest time: the trees,
mottled in dying colours,
hang out their new found
beauty in a final farewell.
The fields are turned earth,
smelling real or shorn to
sharp stalks. The sunlight
returns to us, yet the cattle
keep their coats; root crops
populate new recipes and
fruit weighs on the boughs.
The water is alive, is teaming.
An Autumn mess, in all its
comfort, circles the fireplaces
of the evening and settles in
a chair that, of course, creaks
as it relaxes. New meaning
comes to a vocabulary put
aside for the summer months;
the season exhales, it reclines
into a colder sleep wherein
the silent promise of full
foison is finally whispered:
we shall die, you know, we
shall all die. Yet in that silence;
that desuetude, in the deep
uncanniness of sudden familiarity,
the two seasons fuse. And
in the weft of before and
after the nature of love
is revalued and, in thanks,
prepares, gives, makes ready.
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