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Harvest Hymn

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Nov 21st, 2017

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.”