My basket beaming
of harvests
from sun scorned labor
I sit
in the shade
thinking of Spring’s
soft caresses,
of Spring’s potential, complete.
My timepiece,
the dried and splintered
wheat fields
swaying to the iambic
emphasis of Summer lost.
Teeth sink into the last ripened apple
and I savor this year’s
last whift of honeysuckle
and clover.
As the winter’s seed is sown
I sit
in the shade
nodding at life’s labors
unfolding.