In honor of National Poetry Month, here is one of the poems I wrote in Fall 2011. I wrote this poem, Harvest Day, on one dark day early in my divorce journey.
I run, laughing, through the healthy verdant pasture.
The sun shines hot upon my upturned face.
A glorious crisp October morning.
I am lovingly met and embraced,
Twirled until dizzy.
Hand-in-hand, row-by-row, we gather our reward—
A successful, bountiful harvest.
Chattering birds swoop down to peck at tasty morsels.
When satisfied, they take flight and soar high.
A sight repeated throughout the day.
Suddenly, a siren sounds.
My vision fades, taking the scene with it.
I awaken and turn off the alarm.
Tradition would indicate today is Harvest Day.
This year is different.
I trudge outside.
As far as the eye can see,
There is cracked parched earth.
Ugly, gangly, persistent weeds invaded,
Choking out all that was good.
The winds of change arrived unexpectedly,
Malevolent in nature,
Obliterating everything in their path.
The seeds—ripped from their beds.
What was not destroyed was spoiled.
Like a plague,
The contamination blanketed all in its path.
Now, the smallest breeze raises a cloud of dust.
Blowing, it clogs the air.
No nourishing, cleansing rain came.
The fields were not tended.
All was abandoned.
Except the weeds—
Those damn, stubborn, strangling weeds.
I kick up dust.
Squatting, I scoop up a handful of…what?
Dirt? Dust? Debris? Sediment?
It dissipates easily in the wind.
There are no answers here in this barren wasteland.
The sun bakes and burns the scorched earth.
A long winter lies ahead.
The deprived earth reaps a starved soul.
Cupboards and hearts are bare.
No cornucopia of plenty,
Unless you consider the cavernous void created.
If only salty tears could nourish,
There would be lush, green fields,
Swaying, teeming with rich sustaining life.
Alas, there is no harvest this year.
Copyright © 2011 Suzanne Purewal