HARVEST FESTIVAL
Cloud rests, winged.
Feathered, these upland mists.
Green grey the day along
Swathed and shrouded hills.
The still, one prayer, arcs
The scooped valleys.
(Pitted the stones,
Time-pocked).
A bell, a peal:
A gathered fruitfulness,
A hymnal of sunlit days.
In sainted, beached ship,
Sails of praise turn tides.
We become indwelling,
Folded,
The promise of rain,
The blackbird’s quiver-
Heart arrowed, liquid.
——
