Last Harvest

Sometimes, the last passes unnoticed.

Last Harvest

Scent of dried corn dusts

cool breeze.

September sun settles pinkly beyond

this field

of broken stalks and grasshoppers

and black soil.

Do these Midwestern slopes remember

stretching through

wild and untended

centuries

supporting

grass, flowers, briars, trees,

crops seeded by no hand?

When buffalo wandered,

did prairie see

squirrel burying black walnuts

unearthing fossilized fragments,

sea life long since

forgotten?

Which day

breaks

declared the beginning

of change?

How long

these acres yielded

to civilization bearing

food

year

after

year

at mercy

of farmer

and nature?

Today

some wildness

remains about.

Deer steps cautiously over

ground nuzzling dirt,

nibbling few remaining grains from

otherwise bare cob.

Tomorrow

deer hide.

Bulldozers and blueprints

bury

earth

as human eyes see in

buildings and concrete

growing

money.

Preparing to lie

dormant,

just another winter

tonight

this still

fertile

land

touches

coming age.

Last harvest.

My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him. He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be shaken.-Psalm 62:5-6

This blog post is part of a series of writing (Feb.-March 2014) by Tammy Fletcher Bergland sharing original poetry. tbergland.blogspot.com  

Click here to see my disclaimer and what I’m up to with this season of blog posts.