Tales of Harvest

A year of harvest gone by 
and the grapes filled no basket, the stem bore no berries, –
lively, silence’s lone thriving, 
cradled branches into slumber. 

A year of harvest gone by 
and all but the wood forgot 
the scent of sun-baked soil and dry leafless ends 
and the ample road maps of fog-less days, 
bringing the stars afloat. 

A year of harvest gone by 
willing to bend along the toll of time 
in a dream as dry in worth 
as a seedless hole in the dirt – 
but if it may clump into something more, 
it might just as well disperse
as another ring in a tree stump.

Mont Sainte-Victoire (~1887). Paul Cézanne.