The sound of pears dropping
of corn & sorghum rustling
When September is still the clatter of grasshoppers
& harvest is husky on the breath.
There are does in the orchard rows
showing fawns their first apples
They know: Mornings will soon be crisper
than a honeycrisp.
But it’s hot today
& I remark on the way tomatoes
carry their precious cargo
Safe
from the September sun
Their scent & grime
almost tastier than a tomato.
& I imagine:
As an old man
I could pick peppers blind
Could tell too the dew & prickle of a tender squash
But the sun gets to be too much
& your friends know
& they can
& you sort
In the guest bedroom filled with dill heads & tulsi
& there
Covered in the sweet pungency of seeds
Seed on seed
Grist against grist
Threshing the chafe from off my chest
A peace
A prayer
To harvest.