They have grown to certain freshness,
well enough,
before the winter rains come.
The produce delicate cuts of the reapers,
echoed through the fields,
gathers working in shine of sweat.
Whisperings,
of eye rolling gossip fills the miles of wheat,
faster than any breeze.
With another basket full,
onward else,
away from the lazy undertones,
mindful of when tall trail rows change.
Sandy wheat fade,
insight of sizable dim ginger pumpkins and yellowish tint olive squash,
coming near corn and grapes.
Longs ways in the distances,
a pond shimmers against the high hour sun,
clashing baby bird blues hues with,
violet coveted lilacs,
mossy pale green and chill whip whites.
The motor of a passing tracker,
rumble of the machine cranks and churns,
picking through the disorderly rows,
as the driver minding his part,
just as the rest.
Glace again to the sky,
the sun has down to another hour,
but enough for the job becomes.
In feels as a few days time,
all this will mean much more,
than ever before.
Everything is coming together,
slowly,
as relations,
slowly,
but forward than days before,
giving thankful vows that before meant nothing,
yet means much more.
This yield is grand,
snail in pace,
but handled with care.
-Side Notes-
Doing another Thanksgiving Poem; subject is what are you least thankful for and is there a way of how to handle it your way. The numbers for responses are 28. PM me for the due date is on Thanksgiving Day.
Want to do another Paint a Picture Special; who is the artist you like to see? PM me or comment below.
And lastly, know any Thanksgiving themes that can become poem form. PM me or comment below.
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