Harvest Claim

The clover field in bloom seemed innocent
of any appetite except the urge to bloom
which loosed and fatted blossoms in the sun
as if there were no other months than June,
no other shade than purple, no response
but drift in waves under the wind’s light hand
while bumblebees wrung honey from the land.

But I was sobered when the autumn rains
beat the earth to its bones and drove the roots
into their tunnels to hide what they could keep
of the bags of summer sap; the harvest plains
echo to sounds of metal and I weep
for the fields of summer lost and the end of play.
The crop, once sown, must learn what the sickles say.