I sauntered in under shimmering
stars, down rows of gnarled, moonlit trees, past
crackling shalks and barrels of apples
onto the crisp October-valley farms.
. . . past maples, red and yellow leafed; through
ribboned cherry-smoke; to where golden
window-warmth spread out upon sugar-
frosted, yesterday-mowed fields and hills.
Down the frosty dawn I strode, passing
lodes of apple loads, shivering a
hundred-thousand dreams, past pumpkins piled
harvest-high; swishing gold down hollow roads,
whispering wintry, through a thousand
scratching leaves. Welcome and rejoice me
in while I pass, passing solemnly
the grizzled meeting-house resting-field gate,
tremoring the gnarled, naked Yew trees.
I blow echoes: of south-departed
wedges of geese, folks closing barn doors—
bundled children longing for first snowflakes.
I will have come and gone wrapped in gold,
leaving shalks to scratch my initials
in their minds. Now up, from upon parched
bowed wheat, up higher over dawny
apples, haywheels, silver horses at play.
. . . to peaks of hills, indium coated
. . . to frosted pines, hissing cloud-mountains
south into blue twilight, over two
huddled geese resting at Fuller’s field
by the indigo lake, slapping shore,
. . . upward into low-hung, starry nights
—toward the Milky Way
—toward the Throne of Day.
©2011, David C Alves