Finally, Harvest Time

At the corner of Collins and Addams, there is a field,

A vast sweeping expanse of corn or grain or something

Worse, that spoils the otherwise picturesque view

Of an old Upstate forest. It marks the end of nature.

The plants here were not born in this damp earth.

They were uprooted, swept across a bitter sea,

And left to choke out everything that came before it. 

The house behind it is a ruin, a dark maze of rotting beams

And shattered windows and, surely, broken hearts.

The reaper and the sowers long since abandoned their

Scythes and sickles for something more humane. 

Trading lives instead of livestock. The field still stands

In the soil that they sullied all those centuries ago.

The dynasty dies but the damage lives forever. 

So when the first lick of flame catches the broken stalks

There is a collective hush followed by silent joy.

Black smoke replaces dirty fruits of an unclean labor

And the world is made a better place for it. Care is taken,

For once in this damned soil’s life, to protect the wood

From its lesser brothers. The hungry fire doesn’t move

Past the edges of the crops. The ground is finally clean. 

Darkened soil brings lightened moods and a choir 

Of songbirds express their gratitude through the night.

Some will say the easy part is done, but most of them

Have never had to work to free the salvageable parts

Of the present from the gnarled roots of the past.

There are no easy parts. There are only the seasons

Of work that the soil requires to thrive once more.