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.