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