| The Harvest Moon The harvest moon will rise to see -- fields, golden stacked with hay. She'll gaze upon the orchard rows, red-ripe for market day. She'll cast bright light, on tree's ablaze now shedding Summer's heat. And standing guard the pumpkin patch, the scarecrow's eyes she'll greet. See gobblers swarm the woodland's edge for acorns in their prime. And sharing space, a deer and fawn enjoy this harvest time O'er peaks, she'll rise -- then wander on; though smaller, still as bright. She'll gaze upon the crowns of trees while shining owls in flight. In valley low, the sleepy town has ceased, to mark the time. Yet, steeple bells will glisten gold, the courthouse dome will shine. The steam will rise above the lake, and seek what gardens grow. The midnight dew will lay light frost on all, that waits exposed. Before the dawn, she's sure to prod the farmer, from his dreams. To reap the crop, or silo corn, the work of Autumn scenes. Then reverently, she'll shine her last, as morning warms night's chill. A glowing ball of vivid orange, she'll set beyond the hill ... Joy A. Burki-Watson |
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