| by brian francis The mountain is rusting Its color dulling and shedding in the wind Leaves chattering in the breezes Prepare to release and fly away Like a fledgling readying for its first flight They cling tight to their branches As they flap and chatter in the wind Blustery days penetrate deep their chill As the warm days of summer become a memory No more the complaints of sweat and steam But the seeking chill that inspires dread and moaning Shivers dance upon our spines and legs Like spiders crawling upon our dried husks The chill plays and seeks to annoy Gray skies build their soft light Staunching the touch of the sun’s warming rays Drawing down the mind’s defenses And edging it toward sorrowful thoughts The scythe works in the fields swinging as the golden shafts of seed lay down the harvest fills the days with work unending Copyright © 2020 brian francis |
Harvest Days
Published by
Wordsmith: At The Forge 