by Paul C. Binotto
© 2019
Grain is gold against autumn’s withering dust
To be gathered up, carted, and stored.
And, drawn down for my winter’s crust,
Till all remains are crumbs upon the kitchen floor.
While new-seed still sleeps within its sack,
And the tools on racks, still burnish rusty stain,
The blossoms and the birds have just come back
To roost upon tree limbs, again.
The blossoms express themselves softly, and make such perfect scents.
The Robins are loudly busy about the knitting of new nests.
They brag and wag their heads in song of winter places spent
On warmed sandy-beds, sun caressed!
This year’s harvest is still only but a day-dream,
Or night-mare if there’s drought.
Battles won and lost, disrupt the silent thoughts of the spring-clean;
Always giving all for all or all for naught.
It’s over fertile fields the fiercest
Battles are always fought, won or lost, not rolling moor;
Sold and bought, the plundered gold bullion harvest,
Till all remains are crumbs upon the kitchen floor.
Fostertales 