By sarah iristakeroot@juno.com
Date: 12 October 2000
harvest
The field are barren now. The harvest has been taken, and now the quiet has set in. I watch the fields in the morning as i pass them, looking over their empty rows. Seeing the dying brown stalks where once lush greenery grew. Clouds are gathering behind me, with shadows covering over the low moon. Orange tonight, closing in toward the earth and the horizon. In the morning there will be frost covering what is left of the fields. My breath will hover in the crisp air, then disapating as i walk through through my frozen breath. I now think of the nights where i will lie in bed, holding close the blanket to my chin. The smell of wood burning coming through the vents. Permeating my clothing. Nights where the snow will fall, reflecting its irridescent light through my nightshades. Hearing a hush that only comes with the quiet of snow. I will sit in the candle light, in the secrecy that comes with the cold. In the evenings when they call for thought and contemplation. My body will be covered in a thick sweater, and my feet with his socks. I will watch him from across the room, in his book. Seeing his concentration in the knitting of his brow. I will reach out my fingertip to tough his furrowed brow. Realeasing his tension. So i drive through the deserted highways now. Seeing the summer die away, into the coolness of autumn. Then into the quiet hush of winter, and the warm flesh that waits for me there. Where i will be set free into the night, just as the harvest once so many months ago.
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