Harvest Rain

Verse

HARVEST RAIN

There's a hazy, humid stillness on the meadow of September,
Yellowing willow leaves spiral into the pond from their branches hanging limber,

While the dark skies are growing,
And the new grain we're sowing,

But that was in April past I remember.

The October wind comes gusty from the east,
Tacking across it southward is an early flock of geese,

With the dark skies growing,
And the brown grass blowing,

This sensation is a golden, serene peace.

The farmers cut and rake through the still warm days,
The laborers gather and bundle the sun-dried stalks of maize,

As the dark skies are growing,
And the hay we are a mowing,

And for the bounty, the brethren lift their hands in praise.

The December ground lies soaking to the marrow,
The land is undisturbed and hallowed, like some ancient sachem's barrow,

With the dark skies precipitating,
And the decaying stubble anticipating,

The drying winds of spring and the resurrecting harrow.

C. R. Williams