After the Harvest

Even now the landscape is clicking into place.

Hills dim. Oxen sleep under the blue yoke.

The fields are stripped; stubble of grass catches

what little light is left. Sheaves stand

neatly by the road, cinquefoil at their ankles.

The moon, a toothed watch face, climbs.

This is the bareness

after the assault of plenty,

harvest or sickness, hard to tell.

A wife leans from the window,

hand out as if paying a fare.

Seeds lie distinct, gold, and seem

to whisper: come here,

come here, little one,

and the soul creeps out of the tree.