Summerhaven
Poem for the Micro-Season—Plums Turn Yellow
The plums, weight, bending branches to earth,
becoming golden orbs, like small suns
warming to the touch
and softening like love does,
their scent rising
with the rasp of crickets
and the dry flit of grasshopper wings
and the buzz of cicadas.
All around, summer has changed,
becoming golden with languorous drowsiness.
It was haying at Summerhaven, the first cutting,
the oldest man driving up and down the field
seated on a tractor older than himself,
felling the tall grass.
The next day and the next with the tedder, fluffing it up to dry,
then the baling, small rectangles dotting the entire field,
golden on the short green stubble.
The gathering of friends and workers in sweaty camaraderie,
to lift the heavy grass onto the trailer and the pickup.
The trips to the barn, winter storage,
a chore made easier with a team of four-
the one in the most pain to drive the pickup
one in the bed stacking the load,
and two on…
