After Harvest

fall

With the leaves

fading from lush green

into autumn art

before they die

and get raked

and rot

and return to the earth

I cry for springtime

for winter

and for last fall

when in that cool, crisp air

I would break out

the thrift-store flannel

and threadbare watch cap

and we would go pick

honey crisps

and bite into the cool,

crisp knowledge

that forever was within reach

and I’d breathe deep that country air

and that perfect moment,

that time of day

when the sunlight warmly illuminates

the orchard

and the aging farmhouses

and the entire valley.

And you never think it will actually end,

but then it does

and you’re left sitting there

alone

with your thoughts

and your last few cigarettes

and not enough cheap whiskey

to drink her away

as the snow falls on a dreary New England dusk

and the hunted deer feast

on what was left to rot after harvest

written October 17, 2013

(Photo credit: Mort’s Wildlife Photography)

About soitgoes1984

I was born and raised on land stolen from the Pocumtuc. I now live on a small island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, on land that was stolen more recently, from the Hawaiians. I am addict, struggling to kick the habit of fossil fuel.
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One Response to After Harvest

  1. soitgoes1984 says:

    Reblogged this on soitgoes1984 and commented:

    written this time last year…about how everything good comes to an end. a poem about reflection in autumn…as the leaves change, as the world turns…as a few apples are always left to rot after harvest, but the deer don’t mind.

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