At the gate at Harvest Time

The fields are full at this crossroads.

The pond, covered with green scum, has its private life

No one coming for dinner here, except those who know the true power of algae

The sun belts a rebellious yell before fall descends

My child nurses at my breast as I write

Devine sacrament of all the ages of animals

We think we are not of them, with our motors and ink and ideas

But its milk that sustains.

Generation after generation of goats and pigs and humans

My son is here, and by goddess, he will drink

Sister bee comes calling again as we sit in a pile of grass and earth

I can still smell my blood and sweat and tears

Its only been six months, but you have made me a woman

Your little being, a harvest every day

You teach endurance and the endless ache of love

You are the lion I didn’t know was coming, but now can’t imagine ever being apart from you

You are my teacher. A reminder of flying things and sacrifice and god

We melt in the sun together under an unjudging sky

You touch the pages yet unwritten

Everything goes in the mouth.

Everything gives thanks

I give thanks, little one

For you, and all this is

I give thanks.