The Harvest Moon
Deer repose, content beneath gnarled apple trees
surrounded by overripe, bruised apples,
content as they digest their bounty.
A doe is alert as three fawns, still speckled, lie beside her,
curled and fast asleep in the small, neighborhood orchard.
Fright and flight animals, yet today she's still,
keeps watchful eyes upon me and my dogs,
perhaps the sugar and sun a bit of a drug.
We enter the tree line; red leaves, some orange,
dot and scatter themselves on forest floor;
puppy reminds me of the wonder as he pounces,
misses, resumes the chase.
Squirrels chatter, birds chirp, crows caw
as we disrupt tranquility, the Blue Ridge path ripe
with the first rays of Autumn's gold.
My boots have replaced sandals
and a knitted scarf drapes my neck, loosely;
more a nod to the coming chill than necessity.
Dappled light dances before us, and I remember
last night as my husband and I walked hand in hand,
moon where the sun is now, tree branches
silhouetted above us, the bright glow a beacon,
chapel-like, reminding us of promises made long ago;
...and before me now the puppy scampers,
his young life stirring up worn out, tired leaves,
learning from them, stirring them, giving them new life;
much like our children, giving us purpose,
a new outlook, if we accept the challenge.
At our age, we have a tendency to mull things over,
ponder, be watchful as we consider consequences,
absorb the world through our children's eyes;
much like the doe I saw earlier, and wonder
did we pass her last night on our walk through the trees
beneath the Harvest Moon?
by Margaret Bednar, October 1, 2020
This is linked with "Poets and Storytellers United - Weekley Scribblings #39 - October Thrills"
