Out where the corn grows tall,
The deer play hide and seek,
And mosquitos swarm like street gangs
Ready to pounce and pummel
Unsuspecting sweet-blooded fools.
In the fall, even dusk procrastinates,
Leaving faint traces of daylight’s promise,
To coax the evening crowds: come alive,
See what longing might find you.
Stars swing dance to their own tune,
A song we wouldn’t understand
Even if we could hear it.
The night chill brings bumps on the neck,
As the leaves take their reds,
But morning comes with quiet fury,
A blinding wetness in the air,
And a deceptive warmth that says,
“Maybe this winter won’t be so bad.”
But the farmers, they know better.
They’ve studied The Old Almanac,
And they’re already stockpiling cans,
Generators, bottled water, and matches.
Winter is right around the corner,
Down to a few lunar cycles and counting,
And when the first snow hits,
To topple wires and fog windows,
They’ll be ready.
The city-folk, they’ll cry on for weeks,
Salty sobs that echo over shoveled walks,
But from the farmers, expect no bellyaching:
They’ve had their harvest, and now comes
The part where Mother Nature breathes,
And for a few long months,
There’ll be no shortage of beans and hotdogs.
Until Spring draws green back to the fields,
And the deer come out to start their games,
And once more, there’s work to be done.
Posted in: Poetry