Blasted flowers stand withered in bright sunlight
while others like chrysanthemums prosper.
Lingering phlox might attract hummingbirds
while late moths and butterflies flutter in air
performing snap-ballet of leaps and twirls
above seeping crenelated brown margin
of leaves, fading flowers, crinkled and furled.
Heaps of corn whisper in silken bounty,
long green beans dangle in autumnal air.
Squash, plump pumpkins, chives, juicy plums,
sweet basil, ripe melon, hairy quince
all scent our nostrils, dizzy the eye
as baskets and pails burst with overflow—
a cornucopia of color, scent, and shape.
In ancient Anglo-Saxon days the lord
was keeper of the tribal granary key,
the only man who might ration out
bread, grain, sundry dried fruit
during unseasonal winter weather.
Days, nights, grow pensive in pendulum swing
as leaves turn yellow, brown, screaming red.
The scales of Libra groan to balance
that long-promised tether of tomorrow.
Great harvest accumulates with golden fruit:
Thanksgiving, that American Sabbath of the year,
tawny feast of plentiful harvest,
pivots our gratitude toward heaven—
wherever that highest node winks in sky,
saying “Thank you, dear Lord,
for heightened Joy of bountiful harvest.”