Harvest Home (A Samhain Reading)
We gather in the harvest, gather close to us our memories, our pasts . . .
Gather the sun-speckles glistening on the swimming hole,
Boys and girls laughing in shorts and mud and splashes.
We gather in lying cross-legged on itchy grass, watching bright green leaves move against a pale blue sky,
Rivulets of sweat running slowly down our backs.
We gather in summer projects, fences painted,
lawns mowed, gardens weeded.
Gardens weeded . . . gardens planted in springtime, bright green leaves uncurling, thirsty for sprinkled water,
Green leaves that sprang from egg-carton nurseries, inside, protected from the young year�s icy cold.
Now those seeds, those green gardens, the quiet care of winter, the hope of spring, the sweat and toil of summer,
Have made our feast-table, filled our store-baskets, reassure us with promises
That winter will not be hungry,
That the life-time will come again.
But now, it is full-time, ready-for-rest-time.
Harvest is in, harvest home.
We gather in the harvest, gather close to us our memories, our pasts . . .
Gather in Mama�s arms, tucking us in to soft blankets, whispering safety against the darkness,
Gather in Daddy�s voice, singing, clear and calling and ringing still in our dreamtime.
Gather in Grandma�s hands, making, making . . . chicken and blankets and hand-stories told with callouses
Gather in Grandpa�s checkerboard, his memories shared and merged with ours,
His memories and hers, of stories before them,
Back through buggies and candlelight,
Back through sowing and harvesting,
Back through their heroes, their passions, their triumphs, their tragedies,
Back through journeys and voyages,
Through feast and privation,
Through harvest, and harvest, and harvest before . . .
We gather, at Last Harvest, at Summer�s End, among them,
We carry their lights within us,
The splashing sparkling swimming-hole laughter,
Of those who fought to vote,
And those who were afraid to,
Of those who left us stories,
And those who stayed silent,
Of those who died for what they believed,
and those whose strength lay in surviving . . .
We gather, among them, harvest their legacy,
left with love for us to acknowledge Harvest our history,
Harvest the fruit of seeds planted long ago,
Of springtime hopes for our future,
Of summer�s toil on our behalf,
Of all they dreamed we would carry forward,
Of the weeds we culled away, that the harvest bounty be pure and nourishing.
Here we burn the weeds,
Here we carry their light,
Here we listen, listen to the voices of our ancients,
Listen, that we may harvest wisdom, harvest hope,
Bring the harvest home . . .
Here we bring the harvest home,
Warm and secure against the dark quiet no-time,
Here we listen, and in the darkness,
Here we begin to dream.
Rest, weary harvesters, in the quiet time,
Rest full with the harvest, secure in our history,
Listening to the lullaby-voice
That whispers still, in the falling leaves.
Wednesday, November 1, 2000 19:49:18
Return to the Library.
Return to the Front Door.
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