Until the Root Cellar
by Marcel Aime Duclos

Now that the summer is gone,
the last cut of thin hay
rests scattered in the loft.
Time to face the ledger.

Time to scribe in neat rows,
now that summer is gone.
I chose to plant those seeds
in soil I fed and tilled.

Time for an accounting
of vegetables and fruits,
now that summer is gone;
and far winter readies.

Time to shelve the harvest,
smile the jars and baskets
into sleep and flavor,
now that summer is gone.



 

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