For the Harvest Moon
No farms have these feet tread.
No voice calls from furrowed field,
still solstice’s orb unveils
this silvered night of green gone gray.
Turning winds chase summer’s whispered heat
from a cool and anxious north.
Daylight, sweet, bold, and bright,
squandered when it slid past nine,
precious now at six… shortly, five, and less.
Fence lines trap first fallen leaves
where tomatoes, hopeless, cling to shriveled vines.
Wood and wool will soon arrive
to warm from either side.
MS 9/18/13
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
