A Golden Shovel for Sylvia
by Carole Mertz
(After Sylvia Plath’s August rain: the best of the summer gone)

Summer days have begun their lazy descent. By the end of August
the meadowlarks have nested in the front field, sending their songs through rain,
sun, or lightning strike; the hay risen tall enough to hide a toddler, where the
creek crosses the meadow and where the best
of the wheat was taken in. And all of
those hurried dreams for a good harvest are the
ones we’ve prayed for our neighbors and ourselves, the yield of summer
giving way to full-stocked barns, bread in the larder, and summer’s crop worriesgone.


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