The Last Of The Harvest Moon

The last of the Harvest Moon
slips to a shining sliver,
thinly veiled by fine clouds
rushing east.

Summer’s lushness withers;
fields plowed in,
roots dug up;
flocks rise and wing south.

Come now moonless nights of black;
the wheeling Milky Way,
Orion the hunter—
sword glittering—
the bull’s eye gleaming red.

Come now.

Soon the Hunter’s Moon will rise
to warn the buck,
the bright woods fill
with smoke from campfire
and gunshot,
and hope. - Patricia Thrushart
http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/

The Killing Frost

We wait
In this between time,
When tender leaves are only wilted;
The ground cold
but not frozen.

When frost toys with life
to take just
This leaf, that flower;
A late bee stunned with cold,
nectar gone.

These are good days,
Days to rejoice and be glad;
Glad of the slow bee
And the brilliant petal,
For the killing frost
will come.

- Patricia Thrushart
http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/