Harvest

Late in the day

the fields lean toward themselves,

full of what they have become.

Wheat bends, not from weakness

but from having carried so much.

The wind passes through it

like a hand reading a long letter.

In the orchard

apples fall without regret.

Some are gathered,

some rest where they land,

sweetening the grass.

All summer

the sun worked here,

and the rain, patient as breath.

Nothing hurried them.

Nothing needed to.

Now the baskets fill.

Hands lift what is ready.

In the barn

the press begins its turning,

and the air changes—

sharp, bright, alive with cider.

Children walk the road

between the fields,

their voices rising

and disappearing into the rows.

Along the fences

berries darken.

Corn stands dry, waiting.

Bees move among the last asters

as if they know exactly

how much time remains.

The creek runs slower now,

speaking more quietly,

as though it has said enough.

What is finished does not argue.

It settles.

And walking here

you feel it—

not as a lesson,

not as a claim,

but as something given freely:

that nothing was wasted,

that what was planted

has come into its own shape,

and that for this brief moment

before the cold comes,

the earth is simply

itself,

and sufficient.