10.28

full moon cool night, frost dusting

across long languid farm field hills,

stubble filled now, while mother earth

begins her fallow rest.

along the way steam rises from

the yet warm soil, first winter’s

chill shifting into gear, and men

stretch and yawn in the barns

account books rest on kitchen

shelves. all but abandoned

a harvester rests in the fields, big

green and empty, its busy time done.

breathe now o fields of plenty, breathe

now rough-handed souls who turned

and cajoled and prayed these soils

into forms of wonder for the rest of us.

breathe now and take your rest, banded

by quilts of calico, dreams well earned,

well sworn, well mended. hold your hands,

eyes, and hearts with autumn’s done.

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