These quilted hills the harvest over,
stubbled rows of stalks and stems
trees blaze red and orange and yellow
swaying in brisk breezes blown.
Machines of reaping being hosed off
put away a final time
leaves hang on for their final curtain
in no hurry to depart.
The gatherers check their final stores,
creatures winged feel southern pulls
while my autumnal hope glows warm
wistful my soul sits in repose.
Barbed wire fences now seem useless,
guarding a harvest no longer grown,
fence posts anchor silken webs
glinting in October sun.
While rusty gates sit closed, the land
like the farmer takes a breath
perpending wisdom’s experience
before the stillness of winter’s dawn.