on sorrel moccasins
roosted on tortoiseshell
of root cellar
in numb imaginings
lit with half-light
squeezed in jars
of russet and avocado
a cornice of sky
split with laughter
for broken arrowheads
gold and silver among leaves
air billowed white
soft frail bones
scattering in breath
into apple night
Behind the reaper, glistening beneath
the fading rays of light,
crude elements of happenstance
lie in its wake, passed over
and awaiting those who glean
Yes, there is that querulous
persistence of the poor,
that stubborn cadre of the prescient,
who will peer into our souls
and find us bankrupt,
mind and consciousness already unaware.
It is a curious, stolid procession
passing by--these ghosts
on their ironic quest into tomorrow.
No one may cheer them on; no one
may find a voice to hold them back.
There is no choice, for
we must be content to find ourselves
among the gleaners, though it is we
who sang our welcome to the reapers--
we, who watched the harvest come,
and hungered after it.
And it was we who faced the disillusionment
of barren fields with gleaming bits
of paper bibelot
to laugh and mock us
as we ploughed them underneath.
But fullness too, lurked there
in silent modesty behind the plough.
Patient gleaners know
that down the long, slow hall of history
there is a single echo:
Truth is unchanging...paradox!
There was triumph in the air,
and no man was a slave to it.
I deeply sighed and took a breath
and opened up my eyes.
And it was good.
Last Merlot of the year
end of the harvest
through vines we do peer
after producing their best
the fields once more return to rest
Sweet apple, turned sour. Her taste...
too bitter to be devoured.
Harsh summers, unpleasant winters...
her soul; un-nourished by spring time.
She awaits the rainfall,
her day in the sunshine.
And by harvest, though she's bruised to the core;
I know under her skin is a nectar beautiful and pure.
Golden, Full Moon Shone
On All The Harvest, That’s Grown
Welcome In Our Home
Now is the time of reaping and abundance.
Now a time of preparation for winter's frozen scarcity.
The sun hangs low in autumn skies,
and foggy veils obscure the view.
In Spring, when all was fresh and new,
an all together different hue of innovation:
summer's promise budding in anticipation.
Green newness bursting with naivety.
As time ticks by and lives march on just like the seasons;
the spring of youth and childhood innocence
give way to lusty languid summers of prosperity.
A gathering of experience in autumn,
which leads to winter's wizened wisdom.
Make it not a season of discontentment,
but a time of rich reflection on lives well spent.
A time of joy not isolation,
Make this is a time of plenitude for all for whom we care.
Help us make this winter time a time of hope
not helplessness; and a time when grace is all we share.
For now is the time of reaping and abundance.
Honey combs swollen..sticky and sweet
Apples candied or chopped for mince meat
Raisins dried from my Daddy's grape vine
Verily I say.. it's again harvest time..
Eager for Winter and sun shortened days
Storehouses busting we bring in the strays
Tilling and tending ... the work and the grime
Toiling and teamwork.. we receive Harvest time..
Intervals of hours.. of weeks and years
Miles of work.. with blood.. sweat and tears..
Every time to a season.. every season for a time
~With our hearts full of gladness..
we celebrate Harvest Time!
He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes
He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core
He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell
Annually the garden
provides the results
of one’s labour--together
fresh vegies and fruit
a gift of heaven,
to you Lord
You may like Spring when flowers smell sweet
Or going to the beach in the Summer heat
You may like Winter when snowflakes fall
But I like Harvest Time best of all
I like picking apples and baking pies
And carving Jack-O-Lanterns with glowing eyes
I like the air of a cool crisp morning
When Jack Frost has come without warning
I like it when leaves turn yellow and red
That's when a blanket feels good on my bed
I like sitting with family and friends
Watching the sunset at days end
Then dressing up for the Harvest Ball
Yes, my favorite season is the Fall
I do not know?
TIME TO PLANT THE HARVEST
It's time to plant the harvest now
The time is slipping by.
Jesus will be coming soon
To take us home on high.
We have loved ones still not ready,
And friends we love so dear
That are wandering still in sin,
And it seems they do not care.
It's now that we must pray for them
That God will bring them in
So that they will be ready
When He comes back again.
We are all born as sinners
But that's no reason to stay.
If you come to Jesus as you are
He will save your soul today.
It is time to plant the harvest
And bring our loved ones home . . .
For Jesus will soon be ready
To bring His children home.
©Written by Ann Hart
To God be the Glory
What a beautiful sight, the snow settling on the ground,
All are so different, not one alike can be found.
Winter has come, and the earth at rest,
For all Gods creatures have taken nest.
Have you noticed the birds as they line the fence?
Holding on as they perch, and the wire pulled tense.
The evergreens touched in snow so white,
So beautiful – and such a grand, and touching sight.
The streams even slow and as the water flows,
And the moon cast shadows on the snow below.
The crystals form, and the water slowly freezes,
Each creature speaks a prayer of slow spring breezes.
The clouds so grey, and the blue rarely peeks through,
Winter has come and the warm days are few.
As the days pass, and the cold air breaks,
Spring will arrive and the earth will awake.
Each creature will sing, and rejoice with a new song,
So happy, and joyful for winter has ended – and it was so long.
Let us rejoice and bring forth praises to our King,
As we gather together and praises we sing.
No matter when – spring, summer, winter or fall,
God is there and love for all.
Our Lord will never leave, no matter what season,
He is what keeps us going – no matter what reason.
the golden harvest
reflecting love from above
God's nature at work
blue sky and white clouds
a blanket of protection
nourishing the fields
wheat for many souls
fulfillment of love
What once was green and good is all but gone;
No cheering warmth accompanies the dawn;
The gift of youth has quickly turned to rot,
And distant memories have been forgot
So long this fertile field has been my home,
But now my weathered stalk is fully grown,
And I must pass beneath the looming blade
To suffer soon a silent, scattered grave
Made weak from want of light and water cold,
My shriveled body painted brown and gold,
I pray the scythe will take my labored breath,
And reap the sweetness of my coming death
In nature I have played my simple part,
So on this final journey I’ll depart,
And take my place among the fallen droves,
That came and grew so many years ago.
I do not know?
Blue sky, glorious golden sunshine
Elements every farmer needs.
With crops rippling in the breeze
Combine harvesters whirl into action
See them steadfastly snaking along the fields
I can hear their dull drone from morning to night
Farmhands work tirelessly to gather the harvest
Making hay whilst the sun shines
Every second of the day is so precious
Until the final rays of the red sunset fade
Only then the farmer leaves and can rest
Harvest moon rapidly rises.
Silhouetted in the majestic oak tree
A barn owl roosts silently in the quiet of night
Nature Poem – Sponsor Shadow Hamilton