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The 101 slopes like a spine bent too long.
Camarillo yawns wide in the morning hush,
valley stretching slow, hills bare-shouldered,
fields glistening, half-asleep, half-prayer.

Lemon trees blink slow, bruised gold in the mist.
Figtrees call a name behind a rusted gate.
Sagebrush whispers gossip through chainlink,
its breath full of stories that outlive the tellers.

To the east, the nursery stirs,
plastic sheeting *****,
row tags flutter in the wind.
A thermos, abandoned, rests by a wheelbarrow.
Mud boots, discarded,
stand like sentinels
against the wood plank wall.
No footsteps follow.
I never asked where they went.

Matilija poppies raise their paper-white heads,
and the raspberries, furred with morning dew,
shiver, just slightly,
as if remembering friends
they were no longer allowed to say aloud.

A coffee roaster hummed somewhere distant,
low and steady, warming the wind.
That scent I never could shake,
burnt and sweet.
I could almost belong here again,
but it’s not mine without them.

I worked inside this valley with my back.
With my knees.
With the same hands,
now soft on the wheel,
muscle memory steering roads
as if nothing ever left,
as if the ghosts still ride along.

I pass a strawberry field, stitched in silence,
no voices rising in laughter today,
no corrido escaping from a shirt pocket radio,
no teasing between the furrows,
no calloused hands tossing tools,
only the soft ticking of irrigation
and the hush of work
that now waits for no one.
This silence has been swept, labeled,
nothing out of place but sadness.

I was here with them,
but only as a pair of eyes,
that never opened wide enough.

The strip mall stands like a broken promise,
painted stucco, faded western wear,
alongside roadside markets
missing the opening crew.
Still, the hills lean in to listen,
velvet green with memory,
quiet as folded hands.

Even now, under this sun,
the dust knows who knelt here.
Who sang into the rows,
who fled before sundown,
their names erased from the ledger
but carved into the earth.

And in soil’s hush, their names still root and rise.
In the aftermath of the immigration raids, the migrant workers I knew in Southern California, especially in Ventura County, began vanishing overnight. Faces I shared shifts with, broke bread with, waved to across the nursery lots and strawberry rows, disappeared without a word. Their absence is not abstract, it’s in the empty chairs at the diner, the shuttered produce stalls, the silence where songs and stories used to rise. These are the hands we rely on, the hands that shape the harvest, and now they hang suspended in uncertainty. The fields remember them, even when the papers do not.
Gideon Mar 8
Reach high into the air, towards the trees
bearing the fruits of your labor.
You have tended them with care for so long,
and now they are heavy. Laden with new growth,
they are begging to be lightened. Reap the benefits
and harvest the rewards of your hard work.
You deserve to imbibe on the nectar of your toil.
I S A A C Feb 19
i am attached to my past in a spiritual manner
i gather and gather but never get better
books flooding my head
words meant to mend
the intricacies of my fringed best chasing beautiful butterflies by the river bent
do you see the same visions?
do you see the same distance?
you seem closer in my head
do you deem me different?
do you dream of someone else instead?
let me know, to let me grow
unfold and grow again
let me know, to sow again
harvest and make amends
Jack Groundhog Dec 2024
Goddess of harvests
calls out from wheat fields waving —
Heavy clouds marching
Mercy Nov 2024
Planted in spring, 
Golden kernels sown, 
Roots anchored deep in the earth, 
Blossoms unfurl, 
The fields stretch wide, 
Full of divinity and splendor, 

Through long days and steady focus, 
Obstacles met, paths cleared ahead, 
The work now bears fruit, 

Autumn brings the harvest, 
A bounty gathered with care, 
Golden stalks bend low, 
Swaying in a quiet rhythm, 
Leaves rustle in the wind, 
The sky fills with fading light, 

We gather in fields of gold,
Nature’s work is fulfilled,
A cycle now complete.
Nyx Nov 2024
The season I decided
I didn't want to
Rip dead grass from the ground
And plate it like a fine meal

But sow new seeds
And look forward

***** where the greener pasture is,
I'll grow it myself.
Kamini Oct 2024
Rising from the
womb of the Earth
something is being
stirred inside me.

Could there be anything
more sensually satisfying
than a stew
laced with the
romance of
crushed roses?

Slowly, wrapping
around my tongue,
savouring each bite,
I feast with each nibble
peppered heat
spiced with the
woody caress
of cinnamon;
An invitation
to pause in
pleasure

Soft apricots
pulsing with
sweet nectar
explode with
the essence of
The Goddess
sending a wave
of warm bliss
into the cauldron
of my belly.

Satiated,
tasting the
last kiss of
Summers rich
harvest, I rest.
Lyla Aug 2024
I felt the harvest
Though I was in the mountains
The forest was ripe
My celebration was recognizing the breath of fall entering my body.
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