The pregnant abundance of late summer harvest:
apples in newspapers layered in sawdust
lay on the ledge in the dark of the cellar
potatoes and onions – dry near the barn
Lavenders, rosemary, mint hang in string-bound
bundles on nailheads in high kitchen rafters
the corn’s in, the hay’s in, canning is finished.
The rake’s put away. Summer is done.
My joints stiff and achy
but thankful for plenty
I rest with arms folded
lie back in the chair — feel the sun
warm my temples, to rest and to dream
to dream and to dream to rest and to dream
My dreams blow and swirl like a torrent of leaves:
stack, pool and pile up
whisper behind me
and catch on the hedge
dreams swell into heaps
beneath the magnolia
in spots I can’t see near
an imprudent ledge.
My dreams blow around
like smoke from wood ashes
after the tendrils have vanished
and gone. Smell of stone undersides
some autumn afternoon
again, when the wind flicks
sucks down the chimney-pot
steals me from dreams
shakes me awake.
I remember the harvest, its plenty, the hours,
hard rungs of ladders, the baskets, the rake.
I feel the hot blisters, the ache in my arches.
Dreams, like wild birds, fly away.
Sleep is done. Dreams fly like birds. Fly away
and are done.