The Nights Draw In

Some garden crops lie ready for reap. The rocket (arugula) though flowering still, is falling back. Seed pods turn to parchment, holding bumps of ink. Pumpkin leaves smother the beet, they over-reach - abundant bullies. Some of our tomatoes have been picnicked by mice. Seeds dropped hither and thither: they are not tidy, these mice.
Autumn starts with renewed purpose.
Fruition is the beginning not the end.
On goes the pan, to boil up jam, ketchups, chutney.

Some nights curl in, as a coverlet.
Not this night, this early September eve; this uncovers, supersedes.
We lose the illusory day and are left breathless.
Facing darkness we are reached by pins of starlight. Distance in galactic scales: still they reach us.
We are moth-like, small parcels of heart and instinct.
It is the winter’s cold strike that readies the seed.
The pull of the stars that wakes us.


Geo. said…
I have some small proficiency in the language of the universe, Nature, and am in awe of what you just wrote up there. Something in me has waited a long time for somebody to write "The pull of the stars that wakes us." --an irreducible phrase that evokes wonder. My sincerest compliments.
Jo said…
Delightful descriptions.
Lisa Southard said…
Compliments sincerely welcomed- apologies for the delay, this time not the garden's fault. Faulty wiring had wiped out our internet! Glad to be back now :-)

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