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Harvest
(© Karen Emanuelson)

Fall's land lies fallow
the empty husks burn
in undiluted sun, wind
dries empty pods,
rattle with gourds
squashes flame, bursting
with colors of bonfires,
sky and forest, ripened
berry, nut, root, apples
golden as Sif's hair,
precious in Idunna's basket.
 
Honey sings in the lost voice
of the last bees, lazy with chill.
Freyr laughs, walking long fields.
His work ends with harvest.
He pauses to pull on a pair of jeans
a shirt and shoes follow.
Clothed, he is a young man
his hair ripples red as maple,
the amber flashes burn gold
as a drinking horn of mead.
 
A farmer who rattles down
the washed-out road in a decayed
truck, gears grinding, waves.
He sees a young man, yet somehow
he knows, Freyr, the fertility God
and thanks him for the bounty.

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Last Update: Saturday, August 11, 2007