Harvest Days

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

Published by

B. F. O'Connor

Born and raised in the idyllic environment of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. A rural paradise perfect for a roving childhood. Now living in the desert southwest, with a flock of parrots, a pigeon, and Three dogs.

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