After Harvest

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.

soitgoes1984

fall

With the leaves getting all artsy again
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…

View original post 13 more words

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.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.