The Reaping
Upon the Gathering of All That Slips Away
The scythe swings through the field of every yesterday
Each stroke a careful cutting of what grew between us
I harvest all the silence where your laughter lived
And bind it into sheaves, each one a great burden
What are we save gleaners of our own undoing
Stooping low to gather what the seasons gave and took
Every word a seed that ripened into absence
Every glance a root that withered in the ground
The fields yield nothing permanent
Yet still I reap the morning you first touched my hand
The afternoon we sat beside the water saying everything
The evening when we knew and did neither speak nor turn away
We thresh our hours for what will last beyond them
Separate the wheat of truth from chaff of all we meant to say
Keep only what will feed us when the harvest fails
When fields lie fallow and our hands forget their purpose
The granary grows heavy with invisible grain
The taste of someone's name upon my lips
The taste of rain before a summer storm
The feeling of becoming who I am inside a single moment
That will never come again no matter how I call it back
These are the yields of being here
Of walking through a world that gives and takes
And when I hold them close, they cut me
Sharp as any scythe that severs stalk from earth
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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Comments (4)
The atmosphere, the motions, the heavy burden of memory, collected and redistributed to make life more bearable. Perfectly captured and translated. 👏👏🌾
As a person who grew up on the prairies I appreciate how you wove these thoughts as an integral part equal to one another, the connections of both ideas enhances a complex metaphor of life.
Well expressed, wonderful poem, Tim
Well-wrought! I love this metaphor of the scythe and a harvest of memories. The field can grow wild sometimes, and we must prune it back lest we get lost in our own thoughts. Have you ever read Ray Bradbury's short story THE SCYTHE? If not, I highly recommend! I feel it would resonate deeply with your poem here and its train of thought. Your poems sometimes remind me of Ray's short stories, weaving the symbolic through the practical real.