To the Artist's Page                     To our home page

To Laurel Ann Bogen's previous piece     To Laurel Ann Bogen's next piece

Harvest Come Home

My father sits huddled
in his winter mind
stubble and chill
have aged him
I gather him in
in skirts as ripe
as I am -- no longer a girl
but willow strong
bending and sowing
gathering all my pretty ones
poems and dreams

I call out father
who was oak
father who was tree
I reach for you 
with twigs and nestlings
small gray doves to sing
in your branches
I billow my skirts
and send them flying
up up up through your spare hours
and brittle leaves
you whose song turns
back on itself and chokes
mute and stammering

Harvest I say
harvest come home
there is plenty for you here

To the top of this page