Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Harvest Poetry


Combines at night 
with their lights
working beneath a harvest moon.
Bright spell.
Dusty, musty new-mown smells
of harvest. 
Cold thick haze
born of warmer days 
lays
over the lower fields.
I feel. 
Surreal.


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2 comments:

Kenna said...

This is a hauntingly beautiful poem recognizable only to someone who has lived and breathed on a small family farm. When I was 11 years old, I sat on a slippery small metal seat high above a swather, a fearsome machine with blades and machines that cut the barley and oats into bundles and spit them out the other end. Only later did my father buy a second hand combine, and the men were able to run that as it was easier! We children also stooked, or put the bundles into tentlike structures called stooks. I remember the smell of the hay. It was hard work, and we didn't often work at night. My father drove the tractor. Takes me back, though, to my childhood on a small family farm in the 1950s.

Eileen Schuh: said...

Oh, yes. Thanks for sharing the memories, Kenna