Harvest Moon

I wake to a bright night, moon resting
on the swell of the mountain.

Geese pass noisily overhead, barking
like a herd of schnauzers.

A storm spins past Galveston
another spins out of Washington

and yet another from Wall Street,
each leaving loss and debris

in its wake. I listen to love songs
on the radio and try to remember how

that felt. It's time for the long nightgown,
the flannel sheets. Time to close

the windows against autumn. The stars
of my generation are dying off.

Somewhere, someone is bringing in
the crops. Long ago, I helped with that,

prepared meals for the field hands,
bacon sizzling, the women talking,

shelling peas, canning peaches. Now,
I lift my food from the shelves. It has

nothing to do with me.

   

   

UPDATE 16 September 02008: This poem has been selected for inclusion on Poet's Corner at fieralingue. Thanks, Anny!

Comments

[Anne]

Quite fitting. As i sit, there's the most beautiful harvest moon in the south-eastern sky. When i was a child, SB, i was convinced the moon was mine, for it followed me everywhere when we traveled. Blessings to you, dear one.

[liz]

Your poetry is so lovely. Best wishing

[Timaree (freebird)]

Wow. I really like this one. I've been watching the "stars" fall too knowing soon it will be the ones I love or even me.