Harvest

The great autumn wrath whisked through overnight


          and the wind is still a sonofabitch
          and the trees are swaying silhouettes
          and the leaves are falling like snow
          and the ground is red yellow orange
          and there is reason without a rhyme
          and there is honesty that lies in earth
          and there is the organ-culling scythe
          and there is my carcass in the bale


The great spring sponge will splash my soul one morn


          and the thaw will be a sonofabitch