Harvest season. The last of the hay is cut,
left to dry for a time,
then wrapped into bales,
fodder for the winter to come.
The cornfields are being gathered,
the dry soldier stalks cut down,
the ears tossed into wagons,
ready to dry.
This is the season of putting away.
Canning. Blanching. Drying.
The root cellar renewed
for the long Vermont winter.
This is the season of wood,
Cutting. Splitting. Drying.
Stacking. Stacking some more.
Warmth in waiting.
It is a season of fear.
Disease surrounds, and promises worse.
Depression grows darker as the days shorten.
and so you grasp the color you have
and savor it. Let it sink deep into your soul,
another sort of putting away, of preparation,
a storing of love for the cold season,
warmth made of skin and memories,
About this poem.
I had no idea where this was going when I started. But it ended up being a poem of thanksgiving for love late in life. I don’t think I will ever stop being actively thankful for that.
Or whatever you get out of it.