Harvest moon

I always claim summer as my favorite season, but over the years fall has grown on me. After relentless days of hot August winds and sweltering temperatures, we all long for a little relief, especially this year. Fall is a season of change, a season of love and a chance to pack away the heavy load you’ve carried for the past few months. It’s when my dad slows his maddening pace of work and chores on the farm just in time to wrap up the year before winter. COVID-19 has changed this sweet season for all of us right now, but the leaves will still fall, there are still pumpkins to pick and the cool breeze on our faces sure feels nice.

I wrote this poem a year ago, but there was a harvest moon last night, and I’m heading home to the farm tomorrow, so it felt right to post now.

Harvest Moon

By the light of the harvest moon, I return to the farm in the wildwood.

To the green land where content cows graze and the plains where I spent my childhood.

The white light of the harvest moon reminds me of golden wheat and a red combine.

The sweet, dusty scent of brown hay and quiet nights on the porch in the summertime.

After months of work with no end, the moon whispers to my father, “slow down.”

A new season is on the horizon, my heart has turned homebound.

There’s heavy dew on the lawn and the rooftop as the animals stir before dawn.

The moon drops down out of sight and the bright light of morning turns on.

Each day gets a little shorter, and there’s a coolness in the breeze.

The harvest moon welcomes autumn with its brisk weather and rust-colored leaves.

Oh, how I love you, harvest moon, and all that you help me remember.

When I look at your glow, I can feel the warmth of life on the farm in September.