The toothache of the earth ceases when from behind
Ailing soils, browned to coma, muffled air breathes . . .
Autumn signifies the yellowness of strife, the redness of soothing
Cusps and the flowering of weeping, desiccated grounds.
We raise decibels of canticles, wafting atop candle flares
Of seasons’ end.
Let midnight keep with us the lucubration spirit, when like
Renewed sprites, we hinge our promises on patented soils laid
Bare by the sputum of harvest.
O’ Harvest, hear us well.
O’ Shangrila!
Rusty arms bring on oiled torsos.
We hope to puke vestiges of tilling warmth behind the sun’s
Charged energy,
Spewing forth the delicate spikes of pluvial hisses, mottled and breathing
The courage of the spermatozoa of rain.
Past harvests, lean and breathless, mourn from pangs of deliberate
Hunger – arrogant pogroms unleashed on seeds and dehiscing blooms.
How long shall we lie prostrate to jeremiads of incurable banalities?
When a harvest deliberates on the hegemony of the humus,
The concupiscence of soil samples in one tongue shoot,
Bears witness to the presence of humongous beetles and other sallow nudniks of somnolent dusks.
I crease my brows for a clearer view,
To descry the potential of milking and teething stretches furrowed flat and loose,
Raising bills to summon in one hue of colour,
The arrangement of ceremonies
Just to welcome a Harvest.
Do I speak the truth?
Do I read tomes of regreened testaments?
The impending harvest will give oath to reasons.