Harvest

The light grows weary

each day reducing it’s stay

A guest reluctant, preparing to leave

Gridiron marathons and Pumpkin Spice Lattes

the only hint of the passing

from one to next

While wisps of hay and calloused hands

stocked feed bins and market stands

bear witness of those toils

We are here, in Fritz Lang’s basement

bracing for the flood

lest you forget

before the next pitcher is drawn

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