Bestowed Blessings in a Harvest Sonnet
Pussy willows grow at the edge of the field
cows grazing among brambles and berries.
Catbirds cry from a stand of shimmering alders
breeze sways grasses like gentle ocean waves.
The pheasant race to thickets for a safer cover;
alone in the fields, I lie down and watch the sky.
The grass is warm after a day spent in the sun,
clouds racing eastward towards the Atlantic
like huge ruffled pillows of feted marshmallows.
No butterflies dancing or dragonflies romancing,
pumpkins now orange and acorn squash ready,
corn is now cut, stalks are placed on lamp posts.
Leaves will soon be changing, bursting with color,
crowds abandon the beaches, geese move south.
Apples waiting patiently, plump and so awesome,
moon rises slowly, humming her harvest sonnet.
Blessed be this Earth in all her glorious splendor,
whether in the midst of day or into dark night.
Your true peace may be found watching a sunset,
but your deep wisdom is knowing whom to thank.
© Ken Allan Dronsfield